The Faceless
by Disguise of Carnivorism
Summary: In which Light Yagami is not the only fool to play with Fate's strings. /AU/
1. Let Observers Be Content

**LET OBSERVERS BE CONTENT**

_You are alone. The snow blankets the entire Earth, an endless sea of crystalline white. A steamy mist rises from your face, warming the crisp air for a moment; it isn't enough, nearly enough, to be comfortable… but it is enough to breath. Enough to live. _

_Your hands should not have seen a day of work in their life, but here they are, calloused… weathered and beaten, torn and scarred; paler than the individual spiraling crystals of snow. You still remember when those hands had been white as the snow, running across keyboards with the speed of experience and confidence… but those were different times that the white plain has forgotten. _

_Your shoulders, tense and cramped, are weighted with layers of white. Layers and layers. A black rifle, slick with sweat and grease, springs from your hand, clashing painfully against the blank ocean. Your head turns away and your eyelids slacken, shying away from the garish contradiction. You are ready; ready to jump up and run, ready to spin around, ready to listen. Ready to steal the life of another human being—a creature with just as much right as you to live. Ready to perform the ultimate act of judgment, of iniquity. You are prepared to sin at another's command. _

_You remember staring at these men, these soldiers whose eyes hold nothing but a single order; you remember laughing. The perfect solider obeys without question, and have not you always been faultless?_

_They are your enemies; therefore, by definition, their death ensures your survival. _

_You need to rip them to shreds, to tear them down so they can realize just how far beneath the darkness they have dragged you… to carve a passage of blood and bone through a wall of living adversaries. All to reach __**him**__._

_You once questioned the existence of gods and of demons, and thought them foolish notions nursed only by the superstitious. You do not think them foolish anymore, but it is too late, too late for that, as snow falls from the sky lazily, languidly, adding pound after pound to the load on your shoulders. It comes faster, then, like the whirring of angry hornets on a windy day._

_You wipe the flakes from your hair and feel an explosive rush of stinging, jagged air. Breath, oxygen… Two frozen, crimson flakes sit on your palm, taunting, jeering. The rest melt into a pool of blood—streaming over your face, your eyes, into your ears, your mouth. Down your arms, down your hands. Your burden is melting from your shoulders, saturating your clothes, dripping from your fingers, your bloody, bleeding fingers. Bleeding fingers, bloody hands.… Pooling at your feet, dripping from your hair._

_Your white world turns red in the briefest of moments and your silent grave becomes a screaming mad-house. Shrieks of silent pain and cries of desperation echo in your head, beating, throbbing in time with the bells. Broken voices, haunted mutterings… shadows of pain. Always the pain and the bells. The church bells, the stained-glass windows. Stained windows…. They are stained, too, like your hands, like your mind. Those damnable bells! Another scream—from your mouth? You can't tell—rings in tune with the others, forming a chord. A chord, a minor seventh—D minor, D minor. Ravens fly, feathers fall, scattering black across the ivory—crimson?—snow._

_Another scream, another rush of air. With the air comes the truth—your scream, your pain, your blood. Those are your bells ringing—your bells. You are going to die…. _

_With the one sound that makes all movement still and sound cease, the madness stops. The one sound you hear every day, every hour, every minute, every second, waking and nightmaring. The movement of a piece of metal, propelled high into the air, fast into the air, up into the air, down into the air. Your heart stops, the blood flows. From a chest—your chest?—rips the bullet… And the pain. It has to be your chest. Your heart. _

_Dimly, the irony catches hold of you, then pushes you down into the abyss. Dark; why is it always so dark?_

_You turn. _

_Dark eyes, black eyes, ebony eyes meet yours, sparkling and cold, icy and sharp as the purest midnight obsidian. Calculating eyes, knowing eyes. You need to see the hands, to see the face—the eyes say nothing; the eyes are blank. A window to the soul indeed—a vast, empty, uncaring soul that will never again see the light of day. _

_You have to see the hands as your blood flows, drips, rushes… streams onto the unblemished white canvas of frozen tears._

_You see the hands._

_In that moment you know you are in hell, for they are your hands, jaded and broken, fractured and mutilated, that hold the gun._

_Mors vincit omnia. Death conquers all._

_The voice of a child, a child of death and of the dying, seems to smile as it utters those very words, each one an echo of the great revelation thrust upon you._

_The voice is right._

Awakening.

* * *

**Author's Note (September 2011): Firstly, I would like to note that this fic was begun five years ago (we posted belatedly). So, there's a lot of... progress... made in the writing style and technique.  
**

**Also, second person isn't the operative POV, so if it gives you a headache, you should still read onwards. 'Cause it's a mix between first-journal and third-omniscient, for the most part. There are just sporadic demon-induced dream interludes in second person...**

**Author's Note (2009): Fanfiction eats my poetry alive. This fic will, in general, involve a large amount of war, despair, and blood. L will become a main character as the tale progresses, but it begins with Light...  
**

**Disclaimer: My beta owns Death Note, actually. Yes. She's offered to trade it to me as soon as I finish this.**

**Co-writer's Note: I'm taking lots for L.  
**

**A SPONTANEOUS REVIEW POEM by The Carnivorous Muffin  
**

**I like gore**

**I wish I had some more**

**But alas I want T for the rating of Mors**

**I wish I had some smores**

**And I wish I could rhyme**

**23/05/10 - FFnet is a bitch. They stole our formatting breaks. This is being remedied... As-is, though, transitions are not marked.  
**


	2. Libra the Scale

**LIBRA THE SCALE**

Somewhere you're floating high  
You're not living  
We are  
Somewhere someone's gun, someone's gun is laughing, laughing

_--Born Like This, Three Days Grace_

A letter.

It began with the reception of a letter.

* * *

Light's eyes widened and he slumped in his chair. Burying his face in his hands, he scratched lightly at the polyester skimask-like covering that stretched uncomfortably but familiarly across his face. Picking at a random fray of thread and fabric, he glared at the letter. Perhaps it was some mistake—it might not be for him, after all. It could be a wrong address….

But no, there it was in goddamn bold print. His first name in Kanji, an elegant line where a last name might be, and a lovely number with his date of birth somewhere to the left—Y— Light, 302 875 followed by February 28, 1994.

It had been eighteen years since that very day.

So much for being in denial.

He wanted to burn it with the polyester cage encasing his face, the scabby welt on his thumb, and the big red letters parading themselves across the forehead of the flimsy strip of fabric—the mask, the cage—that was, supposedly, the only thing preventing a Shinigami from scratching his name into its little black book.

Life was a convoluted web of human stupidity. Ignorance was much more blissful than the average academic might imagine. War was a tangled mass of idiocy. Reporters were sleazy scumbags intent on ruining peoples' lives—admittedly, the latter wasn't anything new. Then again, Nealan Adessi and his foul cameras had set the bar a whole mile higher.

Light arrived home before the house's other occupants, as always; completed his homework; performed the amazing feat of changing masks without revealing his face; and headed off to work. And after work, like always, he had met the mailman at the box, sent a nod towards Willy (pointedly pronounced "Weary" by Light), aka Mr. American Mailman, and winced at the sight of yet another concealed face. Of course, getting the mail hadn't always been a foreboding task—he had never even really felt the need to be on a first name basis with the mail carrier before. Besides the monthly bills and some 'Shinigami Servants' advertisements—or, as Sayu tended to say, the 'Brainwashed Freaks from Planet Moron who Enjoy Blood Sacrifices' (BEBS for short)—asking that he kindly 'unveil his face' in the monthly 'Shinigami Sacrifice Sermons', he had rarely gotten anything too horrible… unless one counted Sayu's magazine subscriptions.

That was before the drafting had started. Only a few months prior, high school graduates began receiving ominous letters kindly 'requesting' that they enroll in the Union army to aid in the hopeless siege of the first of twenty-five walls that protected Kira and his loyal 'Shinigami Subjects'.

Just the alliteration was bad enough; now they had a war on top of it.

The Japanese translation of 'We kindly ask that you would aid us in our efforts to bring down this tyrant' happened to be 'You're screwed—say goodbye to your life and report to the most convenient route for immediate deportation'. Light had always hoped the Freedom Fighters would pass over him due to his mother's widowed state and his fiancée's obvious… vulnerability. (Even his current state of mind couldn't keep Light from chuckling at that thought). Measures seemed to be drastic of late, and no one would be spared from the Union's far-reaching hands.

_They must be losing. What a bloody surprise._

His amber gaze traveled past the words and tried to decipher his now unstable future. His mother and sister would be set for life with the sum that would become his as soon as he married… but only if he were wed before his departure. There would be no other possible source of income—'freedom fighters' contained the term 'free' for a reason. Without the money, Sayu would be forced to quit school.

Marriage, unfortunately, was a must.

His fiancée would no doubt jump at a chance to rush the date forward in the hopes of appeasing her god; Light couldn't say the same of himself, unfortunately. Rushing something was never a good idea, and if he died, she'd be stuck as a widow. The day before he left, though; she would see that as 'romantic'… and likely believe that her attempts in converting him to 'Kira-ism' were growing on him. Perhaps it would be better if they were wed.

He had already prepared as best he could, in case he should ever be sent off to that barren wasteland of a battlefield. But still he had to worry; what if he never came back? What if his bones were dried and scattered, frozen eternally into the Siberian snow?

Death wasn't entirely unappealing—his life had been flushed down the drain years ago, when Sakura Television broadcasted Nealan Adessi's 'magnum opus' and the world went mad…. What more could death do? If anything, at this point, it would be a relief.

That is, at least, if his family were cared for.

If he died, his sister and mother would have no one. Well, they'd have his fiancée, but that hardly counted. She was in no position to care for anyone, whatever her thoughts on the matter might have been. The girl could be uncomfortably stubborn.

And psychotic, whispered the nagging voice at the back of his head the was more than slightly worried about the girl and her claims of Kira-visitation.

First his father was claimed by what Nealan Adessi was calling 'Armageddon'; it was almost certain that the so-called _Y—_ _Light _would be next.

But they _would_ have Misa's money…. The money he had planned on using to pay his college tuition, start his business, and make a name for himself, but money nonetheless.

Off to the battle front, then. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.

* * *

Like everyone else in the world, Light Yagami had to go grocery shopping—not to insinuate in any way it was one of his favorite, or even somewhat enjoyed, activities. It simply needed to be done.

A few years ago, the rows would have been filled with twenty different brands of laundry detergent; now there were only five. He had counted. A few masked figures examined the brightly colored containers with mild interest, wondering exactly which one would get that nasty stain off the carpet. Light moved past them with even less interest, an exasperated expression hiding behind the thick fabric cocooning his face.

Down another aisle were the twenty different brands of ramen, sitting there rather uselessly, as each one tasted precisely the same. The ramen had gathered a few more admirers than the laundry detergent but still remained woefully neglected. Light reached for the cheapest and dropped it into his cart.

The experience had been irritatingly dull before the Shinigami crisis; now, however, his exasperation was nearly beyond words. At the front of the store stood a silver, cubic DNA scanner, awaiting a fresh drop of blood from each person who stepped in and out. Light felt almost lucky that he hadn't picked up AIDS on one of his infrequent trips to shopping centers, subsequently, the dreaded finger-prickers.

Besides the ramen, his cart was soon filled with other generic food products, including some Pocky to sate his addiction to the sugary substance. He hoped the company enjoyed their well-earned Yen.

Seeing the cart full, he stepped in line behind one of the mask fanatics, a person who, with much delegation, chose their mask with the specific purpose of conveying their unique personality to any hapless passers-by. This one chose something that vaguely resembled an obese cat. Upon making eye contact with the whiskers and furry ears, Light immediately turned his cart around and moved to the longer, more normal line.

The impulse buy section had remained largely the same over the years; packages of gum still glinted in the artificial lighting, begging him to buy them. As usual, above them rested several newspapers and the sporadic smattering of tabloid magazines telling him what his man thought about while 'doing the deed', and how to slim down his 'already perfect figure'.

The newspapers boasted marginally more interesting tales of cities rising from the dust. One of them claimed the return of Kyoto, which, despite the complete collapse of its local government, had sprouted from the ashes and returned to the modern world sans a few buildings and spots in the city's asylum.

Light gave the city a week.

The next headline claimed that Nealan Adessi had been spotted in the newly reformed Czechoslovakia, sucking olives out of a martini and gathering intelligence for his come-back article. This, of course, was completely ridiculous, as Nealan Adessi—like all other humans—wore a mask that concealed his identity, making him nearly impossible to… 'spot'.

The third article he looked at was slightly more believable than the last two—Kobe, after conquering the odds, had once again fallen to angry-mob justice. The few people enraged by the new government had decided to, once again, destroy the capital building and slaughter everyone. They met their goal quite successfully and the press was not too thrilled with the lack of inspirational stories to lift the public's spirits.

They could go shoot themselves if they wanted inspiration.

And so, with ramen and Pocky in tow, Light subjected himself to one more DNA scan on his already-scabbed thumb and departed.

* * *

School was average, as always.

Sayu went to school, did nothing but study, and brought her homework to Light for completion.

Unfortunately for Sayu, on February 23, 2011, mid-way through the mildly sunny Wednesday morning, she was assigned an in class project. Fighting back the wave of nausea, she slumped back into her seat and flipped her pen between her fingers, prying her mind for one of Light's pre-prepared "I can't do this right now!" excuses. Sudden extended bathroom trip and all the usual pranks had already been used once that month, and sick relative was out—besides Light and her mother, they had perhaps… a single aunt that had managed to avoid getting blown up. Fainting was no longer viable, because the school nurse had declared Sayu _wasn't _narcoleptic just last week.

Ito-sensei, her middle-aged, slightly balding teacher, issued the assignment's parameters with the lisp a malevolent god had likely granted him. "Twenty-five minutes to write an essay of any length on one person you know and the psychological effect the current world state has had on them—compare-contrast is the recommended format. We are more interested in accurate analysis than paper format for this small project."

Her wild apprehension deflated into relief.

Ito-sensei taught one of Light's classes, too.

She took two minutes to ponder possible wording, length, and thesis options before settling on a two-sentence long statement. Delivering the paper after a grand total of five minutes' hard work, she received a masked smile, noticeable only from the crinkle in his eyes.

"A plus."

_Everyone used to love my brother. Now, he is a complete asshole._


	3. False Pride

**Scourge's Note: Something to realize about this Light: His life has been a royal mess since age thirteen/fourteen and he has not had an opportunity to grow up.  
**

**A) He is not recording his soul on paper.**

**B) He is bitter and angry; this diary is his venting mechanism.**

**C) He tends to... obfuscate... on some matters.  
**

**D) He is not omniscient, and therefore does not fully understand the world's situation.**

**E) He is not entirely certain of his opinions of some matters, and they DO vary from day to day.**

**Point being: Do not take Light's diary entries at face value. PLEASE.**

**Thanks to lil_dark_mistress for the amazing beta job.  
**

**

* * *

FALSE PRIDE**

Give every indication that you're mended  
Take every rule you come across and bend it  
And did you ever think to ask my opinion?

_-6 Gun Quota, Seether_

**Light's Notes on Life and Other Such Mediocre Events**

**2012, 19 January**

**22:57—GMT+9**

Dear God, it is I, Light Yagami.

As you know, I think You are a complete bastard and will _always _stick by that theory, despite the fact that my public atheism condemns me for admitting Your existence. It could be argued that I am _technically_ not an atheist—call me a deist, I suppose—considering I strongly believe _something_ other than the various bogus creation theories is responsible for my world. Regardless, I in no way bow to the concept of a 'supreme being'. Any person who claims to follow a series of constricting laws (religion, if you will; the semantics of the term are irrelevant) that involves 'faith' and 'good behavior' receives at least three red marks in my book—one for being a shameless liar, and the other two that are automatically tacked onto anyone denser than me. If religion is a decisive factor in their life, they _are_ no doubt considerably less intelligent than Yours Truly.

Point being, there is a creature floating somewhere that will read this and I refuse to admit that it is a god. For all I care, it is a phantasmagorical conglomeration of my dead cousins (I hope You know I never enjoyed _a single _family reunion). Despite that, I see no better title with which to address said being and am therefore using the name 'God'. With the mess Shinigami have made of the world, I am to assume none of them are in the least bit competent, omniscient, or involved, and are, by default, excluded from the above reasoning.

A proud excuse for one of Your subjects, am I not?

Ah, how marvelous. I digress _already_.

Now, I know for a fact that You and I are both wondering two things right now. Perhaps I am wondering and you are watching me wonder, because according to the masses, you know all that was, is, and will be…. But, once again, I digress and contradict myself. I shall assume, for the moment, that You are indeed omnipotent and omniscient and move on (do not, in any case, assume that I certifiably _believe_ it for a moment). Returning to the aforementioned queries.

Number One: What am I doing up so late? And Number Two: Why do I feel like talking to You in the black notebook I hide in a false drawer.

There happens to be a rather remarkable answer to both questions, and I am magnanimous enough to answer them immediately. Yes, I _truly am_a slave to my own selflessness, and I must suffer for it.

Now where was I again…? Ah, yes, complaining, lamenting, ranting, or venting, in the words of those of significantly lesser intelligence—in the majority of situations, haranguing would certainly be an adequate term, were I to select my own. I believe the artists call it the Morning Pages and the religious folk call it praying, but recognizing that I am not participating in self-reflection or asking for anything, I shall dub this an organized list of _mild criticisms_.

Where to start; where to start….

There is much worth complain about, yes? I suppose, thouh, I can sum it all up in a single word.

Shinigami.

What, pray tell, were You thinking? Gods of Death? Do we really need them? I am quite sure You may believe them necessary, but _I_? I can not fathom what You were trying to accomplish by poofing Notebook-wielding monsters into existence. Was it ingenuity or lunacy? You undoubtedly received an 'A' on that particular Creative Writing project.

People die as incessantly as they whine; there is absolutely no need for scary bedtime monsters to aid that particular cause. In fact, humans do half the work for You—blood-crazed murderers, gangs blinded by various petty grievances, escaped crazies who were somehow intelligent enough to get past dormitory nurses, daft idiots who think that emo is a lifestyle rather than a music genre and clothing style, self-destructive drug-users who waste their own lives, selfish suicidal idiots, stupidity in general, behemoth weapons wielded by those who are frightfully lacking in gray matter, dangerous machines hefted by housewives and incompetent doctors with water on the brain, and… well, if You are as omniscient as they claim, my point is quite apparent.

You truly are a smug scoundrel.

Really, though, this entire page or so has been a mammoth digression. Today, I am critiquing You in a different field of your work; a field that has nothing to do with Your rather questionable choice of the functions made available to the human 'brain' that result in death.

This phenomenon would be none other than… (bring out the snares, please) matchmaking. Arranged marriages, if you will. Drunken pacts to marry firstborn daughters to sons, or, if all else fails, firstborn daughters (but never firstborn sons, because neither father particularly appreciated the concept). Exactly how it happened, God. I swear it. It was canceled after thirteen years… and then reestablished when the war became relevant.

Away from personal details and on to arranged marriages in general. They are (mostly) of the past, often performed in obsolete kingdoms of old and far off modern countries with poor views of womankind. This is a practice best forgotten, seeing as it is tedious and useless as matrimony itself. If only Fate were so kind as to have rendered such monstrosities illegal (not to insinuate the law holds any relevance at all, these days).

And the source of the entirety of my love-or-lack-thereof-related-woes: Misa.

Why do You torture me so, God? Do You hate me so much as to send her to torment me? Am I, Your creation, so much of disgrace that You must set the most vile and hideous of creatures upon me?

I saw her yesterday, in case You were wondering. Even the all-knowing must have a problem sorting their facts out, on the occasion. Anyway, I had assumed she was dead. Well, not assumed. That is far too pretty a word for what I did. Closer to… blindly deluding myself into considering her deceased. I begged, pleaded, and _groveled_ (to say the least) for her execution. But alas, once again You have disappointed me, oh Lord, by keeping even the most repulsive of people alive. Goddamn You. (Or, 'damn' You, considering the context).

Back to the point, once again.

Misa looked exactly identical to her previous self, I suppose. Or as much the same that anyone can with these masks on their faces. Still blonde, with a figure most find attractive and a rather pretty voice.

You know about her, correct?

Of _course_ You do. Unlike me, A—-san is (was, perhaps) quite popular in Your regard. Pretty, wealthy, sweet; everything my sister has ever wanted in a mother-in-law/sister. And I too, in a wife, if I were willing to admit it and if you ignore the mild psychosis that set in after… Kira. Her modeling career flatlined after Your little experiments were discovered. In fact, the media business crashed completely for quite a few years—all pictures, movies… anything with nose, mouth, and two eyes in sight was burned. It seemed as if the world was burning, strewn to pieces as smoke clouded the sky. I could not breathe for months. Still can not, really.

You ruined her, You really did. Of all the unforgivable things ultimately caused by You, the destruction of the grating-but-not-entirely-detestable little A— Misa I once knew is the most present in my mind.

Back to past Current Events.

The actors and celebrities were those in greatest peril. Their faces were everywhere; how could they hide something that had been so commonplace throughout the world? In fact, the majority of the world's actors and famed do-good/evil-ers (as much of a word 'evil-ers' isn't) suffered from spontaneous Shinigami-induced cardiac arrest. Those who survived were only those who had been fortunate to have all their pictures burnt before a Shinigami peeked at it. Their entire realm must have panicked when realized that we knew (and began wearing… masks…), and decided to kill everything that spoke intelligibly…. Armageddon was unleashed. Crime rates soared; with masks as their camouflage, criminals grew arrogant. Kira had single handedly destroyed crime and then yanked it into a peak so high the tip couldn't even be spotted from Kilimanjaro.

Kira, with terrifying speed and ardor, had abandoned his people to the eidolons that now roamed the land. No matter how hard the self-appointed priests prayed, he did not return to save them as he had once promised. Forgotten and forsaken, they wished for death to claim them above all else. Suicides became disturbingly regular. A mass trend rose among the people—bodies lined the streets and the crimson blood of betrayed zealots seeped from the windows to stain the pavement. The rain has yet to wash it away.

Can you still hear them, God? Can you hear them screaming for you?

Surely you must, dear God. After all, even you cannot possibly turn a blind eye to _this_ mess.

Whether you are God or Kira, I know not.

They claim the First Kira was human, corrupted by human goals and human desires… and that the Second is just the same. Certain curiosities have made me doubt this, at points.

Russia, for some reason I would rather not contemplate, had been in the process of erecting a twenty-five-walled fortress, surrounded by a significant number of outposts that were, altogether, capable of housing nearly five hundred million. The site of said project was one of Russia's coldest areas—the Yana River Valley. Despite the fact that nobody spares a thought for the east side of Russia, the second Kira cared for only that place. Why not China? Why not America? Why not Tokyo? (It was, after all, Kira's root city).

Nobody outside of Russia is even able to determine actual borders of the area, whether it be historical Siberia, Geographic Russian Siberia, or, my favorite—the Siberian Federal District. What is it with Communism that distorts those neat lines on the map?

To get back to the point (if there was one to begin with), the entire country—or a little beyond the country, if you adhere to the more recent map—was conquered overnight without anyone hearing a word. Not a single tank or bomb. It was the most anti-climactic demonstration of military prowess in the history of warfare. Even less climactic than the Pig War of 1859, which, at the very least, resulted in the death of the pig.

Any normal human being would have asked himself (or herself, if you are attempting to be politically correct) "Why the hell am I taking over Siberia?" Again, nobody cares about it—even I, with my obsession over politics. While other children were playing video games, I was watching debates—not that they were interesting, but, still… facts speak for themselves.

Again, no human in his/her right mind would spend so little time on taking over a nation. It is simply not natural to be that efficient. The attraction of cultivating a firm crop of fear alone provides enough motivation to draw a conquest out—yes, Kira certainly did manage to orchestrate a massive takeover, but there were no casualties. No missing people, no fire-scarred buildings. He booted everybody out without even lifting a finger, which, as eerie as it is, was not widely publicized, and as a result had little emotional impact on the general population.

Not human. Definitely not human.

Granted, on the same night, six hundred and sixteen thousand, six hundred and sixteen men and women, all operating under masks, and mostly reputed to be criminals, dropped dead, but prominent Kira-haters died, too, along with a large number of homeless, starving orphans.

Marginally more human, I suppose, but tone must wonder how the Note got past the masks.

Unless it was never the Note at all.

I do not want to even think about how this entire situation may have been caused by a scam. The concept is absolutely revolting.

Regardless of method, Kira had returned.

I digress once again. Back to Misa, Misa, Misa.

Misa was on the opposite end of the Kira-fanatic spectrum. Although she had been a dedicated Kira worshipper, she still seemed happy. Her God had abandoned her along with all the rest of them, and she still smiled! Hell, she may have even prospered from the situation; while the modeling business may have crashed, A— Misa most certainly _did not_. In fact, her (largely Kira-supporting, but not imminently suicidal) fan base grew wildly touched by the fact that even a celebrity was 'sharing their in their sorrows'. Once the media business kick-started once more, it was impossible to ignore her, with her masked face adorning every teen magazine, touting blind, ineloquent praises such as 'He's left, but his legacy lives on—the Second Kira is still killing criminals. He has found a way around the faces!' Her eyes followed me from every newsstand on the face of this Godforsaken planet!

They are completely oblivious to the war. They they are not even aware that if it were not for their precious Kira, the Shinigami would not have been shocked out of whatever it was they had been doing instead of killing us every five seconds. Unbelievably obnoxious, the ignorance, the blindness.

They never even saw what was going on behind Misa's mask.

In the wake of the Second Kira's arrival, a war began. Both of our fathers were drafted within a year, and apparently decided to rearrange our marriage. Hers returned within three months—via a steep series of bribes, I would expect. Unfortunately, one of the few remaining robbers decided to hit the A—'s neighborhood. Kira had been taking a vacation on killing since the comeback, instead choosing to focus his sights on the war, apparently.

Misa's father decided to bring out his gun, and both her parents were killed in the ensuing struggle.

This criminal died in one of the following criminal and public-Kira-hater-but-not-government-official-killings (after ordering the kidnappings of the majority of the world's competent military leaders, Kira refrained from killing everyone but high-ranking Anti-Kira Coalition leaders—contradictory much?) and… in her grief, Misa devoted herself to him.

She had fallen apart, and yet, they still loved her; _everyone_ loved her. They had not even known her when she was still her, and they did not know her now. Misa was gone, swept away by Kira and his misguided message—that saving mankind entailed destroying it—and then he abandoned her.

Meanwhile, my little next door neighbor who used to baked chocolate chip cookies had changed, and grown to be everything I was not.

Loved. And a mite loopy.

I suppose my hatred for the woman she is today takes root there. But really, there are a variety of other… issues that drive me crazy. Do not call me trite or petty, because I' am quite certain… of my standing. Even if I had never known her from before Kira and the Apocalypse (and honestly, she was barely tolerable back then; the threat of marriage somewhat marred the twelve-year-old-me's opinion of her), I would have been, at the very least, annoyed with her upon acquaintance.

She did not even recognize me.

Yesterday, written today. May as well pop in the proper heading:

**Light's Unfortunate Flashbacks in Ink and on Paper**

**2012, 18 January**

**12:31—GMT+9**

I was sitting at an outdoor café on my ten minute (iabhormyboss) lunch break, enjoying the spring weather and tapping my fingers impatiently against the table. Honestly, I was quite stressed—holding three part-time jobs tends to do that to a person. For a reason that remains forever unknown, I was not anticipating Misa's sudden collision with my table, which spilt my half-empty cup of coffee onto my lap. Had I seen her coming, I would have been prepared. I was aggravated, to say the least, but ever the gentleman, I resisted the urge to bash her head against the table.

"Oh, I am so sorry!"

Yes, I was sorry too. Sorry that I happened to recognize her voice, that is; she must have been there for the latest Kira convention. To my knowledge, said convention had ended over a week ago. Why she still graced Tokyo with her presence was beyond me.

"Yes, well, it was an accident." I doubted this, but still, common courtesy is advantageous.

"Here, let me help." Misa snatched one of the napkins from the table and attempted to dab the puddle of dark brown coffee, her voice apologetic while retaining its mild tone.

"Please don't bother; it's beyond redemption, I'm afraid." This was followed by an unspoken 'Now go away, so I can plot your demise in peace'.

"Oh… okay." She stood there awkwardly, obviously deliberating of her next course of action. If my assumptions were correct, she most likely had a plane to catch, or something to that effect. Misa and I have a policy, you see; if we both ignore the fact that we are due to be wed before the year is out, then the union will not transpire.

Do not laugh. Matrimony is no joke. Especially when your fiancé happens to be a Kira-worshipping sheep who makes more money than you do. This is why I hate my life—I haven't one. Feel free to join in on my pity party.

"I'm so sorry! I really have to go now." She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, where her stretch limousine was no doubt waiting.

"Right. Thank you for gracing me with your _divine _presence." The menacing inflection's purpose was the dropping of a 'GO AWAY' hint. Of course, she had not received it, because she was already gone by this point, speed-walking down the corner and not even sparing a glance for the young .

I was vaguely wondering if I still remembered how to copy her signature. Perhaps I could sell it on E-Bay for a rather impressive sum of money. Of course, I did just that later, and paid all my mother's bills and taxes for the next week. Handy trick, yes?

Perhaps I should make a living of faking A—-san's signatures; by the time I turned forty I would surely be rich as the fortuitous men who saw fit to invest in Microsoft stock.

**Light's Notes on Life and Other Such Mediocre Events (Continued/Revisited)**

**2012, 20 January**

**0:43—GMT+9**

Recount is over.

God, I loathe You. It is because of You that I am whining like this, and it is entirely Your fault that I am flat broke and would spend the entirety of my free time copying A—-san's signatures, had the internet not become one of the most tightly-monitored enterprises in the wake of Armageddon.

Kindly roast in Hell.


	4. Envy Not the Beast

**ENVY NOT THE BEAST**

Must be something on your mind  
something lost for me to find  
Do you know I'm faking?

_-Driven Under, Seether_

**Light's Unholy Book of Demons**

**2012, 23 January **

**21:14—GMT+9**

I suppose You have forgotten me by now; not that I blame you. The great Y— Light (once great, rather) does not stick out as he once did. Again, thank you for that. Outside and _inside _of home, I no longer carry my family name. Instead, I am numbered. Technically, I am not even supposed to be called by my first name… but Sayu and I use each other's first names constantly, and neither of us is dead. Yet?

Once again, I have returned from my third dead-end job to finish taxes and my homework. Both take a minimal amount of time but inconvenience me equally, which is partially the reason I procrastinate on both. While being buried neck deep in paperwork is not the most enviable task, You only made it more enjoyable by sending that succubus _witch_ from the deepest pit of hell.

Was that really necessary?

I was first alerted to her presence (if You have to ask who by now, you deserve to be in the Geriatric Ward) by a series of light taps on the door. I considered opening the door with the sole purpose of slamming it in their face and telling them to go rape themselves for my amusement. Of course, the last time I did that it was the landlord at the door, so I decided to ignore the tapping altogether. If it were anyone important, they would have a key. If they were careless enough to lose the key, they did not deserve to walk through my doorway in the first place.

Along with my stack of paperwork was a city of dominoes I had been creating since last Thursday. I take pride in the ways I can waste time without surfing the internet or watching useless day-time television. Among these hour-sappers are butter sculptures of household objects. When the weather cools off (likely tomorrow, with the way the weather patterns have been going since the Armageddon) I will move them to my bathtub, turn up the heat, and watch them melt. I've also conducted some rather amusing experiments with various household chemicals (chief among which being dish soap). Alas, the greatest of all my creations, the great house of cards that was built in a locked utility closet in my school during my ninth grade year, is no more. It lasted about three weeks before someone decided to open the door, and I have never had the resolve to resurrect it.

I was so busy concentrating on my dominoes that I neglected notice the increased fervor of the knocking until one of the blocks began to tremble. Cursing the unknown intruder, I stalled from adding a new domino to the row and went to yank open the door.

My scowl only deepened when I saw her bright blue eyes (contact lenses, I would assume) gaze innocently at my doorframe as if there were something interesting etched into the side. (There was not, I assure You; go look if you want proof). Her mask was now a shade of fuchsia best reserved for a five-year-old's princess-themed tea party (the other day it had been a dainty yellow; not much of an improvement either way, if you ask me). As for her clothes… let us say the neighbors might have believed I was hiring prostitutes for my own amusement. There was more skin showing than actual cloth—or, dare I say, sequined spandex.

One of the things I loath about this era of uncertainty is the strange fads in clothing. Spandex appears on a regular basis, and really, You should not need to hear more. It is the most disturbing thing I have seen in all of my seventeen (nearly eighteen) years of living. I tried to ignore it best I could and continued to wear my considerably cheaper (and more comfortable) khaki pants and formal shirts. My mask clearly is not in style; it is an infernal ski mask with plain old holes for eyes that constantly scratches my face.

I'm sure You are tired of hearing my thoughts on fashion; let us return to my conversation with Misa.

"Can I help you, A—-san?" At the time, I did not feel like referring to her as a friend or even as a respected adult, despite her age; it dwarfed mine by somewhere around a year, two months, three days, (I glanced at my watch) one hour, and twenty-seven minutes. In fact, I still felt the urge to tell her to go rape herself… or at least, go to hell. (Not that it took much effort to get there). I fear the excess job-load has been screwing with my thought processes.

"Light-kun! Misa just _had_ to see you while she was in town!"

I glared at her. She did not even mention running into me five days ago—what an insolent….

I will not even write it down for fear that my little sister may someday read this text as evidence in my trial for the brutal murder of my wife.

I simply did not wish to be near Misa's idiocy… or anyone else's, for that matter.

Idiocy might actually be a harsh term. Misa, despite her inability to speak properly, is actually fairly intelligent. Not a genius, but still smarter than I give her credit for. It is much easier to loath someone who doesn't have brains enough to repudiate it. That's what I find, at least. Besides… what person in their right mind would still worship a man rotting in an unmarked grave? She followed the First Kira, the Kira who had avenged her parents' death, after all.

"Wonderful, A—-san. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have bills to pay, homework to do, and domino cities to build. As you can see, I am booked. Besides, don't you have that megalomaniac worshipping convention? I heard it's in town this week." Slightly harsh, but I was still angry with her.

"The Kira Communion was last week, Light," she answered sweetly with a slight flutter of her eyelashes.

I'm not really sure if she was just trying to piss me off at this point, or if she truly believed that I cared about whose ass she was kissing.

"Oh, really. My mistake." Before she could reply, I decided to act on impulse and shut the door. A muffled shout of frustration sounded through the thick wood, but I decided to let my neighbors enjoy it. After all, how many times a year did my finance bother to show up? Oh, sorry. Fiancée. Yes, fiancée. They're very similar words in English; that's all. Nevermind that I am writing in Japanese….

Turning back to my domino city, I picked up the forgotten piece and proceeded to place it in the position needed. Of course, I was interrupted when the knocking resumed. By this point, I was getting to the point where killing the model did not seem like such a horrific idea. I have slightly morbid daydreams; they amuse me.

Maybe in some past life I was a murder addict afflicted with Renfield's Syndrome. Did I mention that in that life, I would have some form of constant income? A rich murder addict. No war, no Gods of Death breathing over my shoulder… only dead bodies. I can deal with corpses, pale and rotting, safely buried under ground. I can not, however, deal with gods. Even _I_ can not deny the newfound shadows in the night, the ones that seem to watch my every move. I can no longer deny the existence of monsters, no matter what logic may scream.

Back to Misa, again…. My life really seems to be revolving around her at the moment.

I once again pulled open the door, stared Misa down and waited for her to finish her business and leave me in peace. Haste was unlikely, but I had always been one to cling to dwindling rays of hope.

"Right. So why exactly are you here, Misa? If you're trying to convert me," _again_, whispered my inner demon, _is much too kind a word, _"I'll have to tell you to get the hell out of my doorway." Her stance gave away that she was feeling relatively guilty. That meant one of two things—she was going to convert me, or she was about to risk life and limb by breaking up a marriage arranged by our fathers prior to their involuntary enlistment in the Union army (her mother had always been frightening; I'm certain malice of such epic proportion does not end in death).

Knowing Misa, it was obvious which of the options was plausible.

"I've come to pray for your soul, Light. Listen to me!" Misa squealed imploringly. "You're going to try to fight Kira-sama. Light, Kami-san will forgive you for trying to kill him if you don't really mean it. You have to believe Misa! Please!" She started to (fake?)-sob into her hands, and overall, it was quite the awkward situation. Most of the embarrassment stemmed from curious neighbors who were nosy enough to open their doors and gawk at Misa and me.

"Misa, you should know better by now. I have no soul." It was a struggle to keep from snickering. She is a sweet girl, at the heart of things. I have no patience for kind and caring—neither matters in reality, and dancing around her in circles is one of those crucial sources of amusement that gets me through the day. "But you are correct, in a way; I will most likely be enlisted soon, being nearly out of high school and in my prime. I don't have nearly enough money to form a bribe. As for your benign god trying to kill me, I think I'll survive. Or at least, _you _will; after all, Kira-sama wouldn't want to murder any of his loyal subjects." If she caught the mocking tone in the last part of my speech, she gave no indication… which leads me to believe she did not. Honestly, she made it sound as if I were dying to get out there and kill Kira.

Ridiculous notion, I know.

With outstretched hands, Misa lifted a menagerie of what appeared to be home-made Jehova's Witness booklets, Kira style. "Misa brought Light some Kira pamphlets, in case he changes his mind." The corners of her eyes crinkled with a concealed smile that would have led me to conclude she was hopeful.

Here is where you could tell Misa was slipping: she started referring to herself in third person and she hinted that she thought it was possible to change my mind. Nevermind the pleading, as that is somewhat logical—Kira worshippers have various ranking and tier rewards granted for conversion, and she would no doubt die to get her hands on more. "Right. Well. That is terrific. I'm sure those pamphlets will make me many friends when I'm shipped off to an abandoned icefield."

And now, my record of today's late night conversation ends. It's not that interesting, and I wouldn't want to trouble You further. Let's just keep it brief and say that Misa and I decided to squabble about political/religious happenings of the day. I think I contributed the most to said conversation due to the fact that she left in (genuine?)-tears.

And that leaves me this last complaint. I move away from my mother's house out of the blue, and _a week and a half later_ my fiancée shows up. How in the hell did she find out where I lived in the first place?

….

On second thought, I do not believe I want to know.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: ...Review...**


	5. For Whose Advantage?

**FOR WHOSE ADVANTAGE?**

Would you mind if I killed you?  
Would you mind if I tried to?

_-What Have You Done?, Within Temptation_

**Light—If This Were a Death Note, A— Misa Would Be Dead Right Now**

**2012, 15 February**

**13:48—GMT+9**

I hate A— Misa.

I abhor her.

There is no word vile enough to describe my feelings towards her.

What a sham of a soon-to-be-marriage. My father must be rolling in his grave right now. He is likely disturbing a great number of other corpses in the process, as his resting place _does_ happen to be in the center of an ice field, buried under the bones and weapons of the useless dead. But nevermind.

Save a mishap involving Misa's father, my father, and considerable amounts of liquor, it remained only his _unspoken_ dream that I marry Misa; her father was very influential within the police force, a true officer. Dedicated to justice and peace, and all that other whatnot. It makes me gag just to think about it, now, although I could have loved the man in another life. Misa and I were never particularly close, despite my parents' constant arrangements of 'play dates' and the mysterious invitations Misa received to every single party I hosted. And after the… image holocaust—for lack of a better term—started, it was decided that Misa and I should be married.

I suppose that in a way, it is my fault that the plot has not been aborted. I never complained; not once. I knew that however much I may loath the idea, it might become my father's last wish. Ironically, it turned out to be precisely that. I can not turn my back on the last thing he ever asked me to do… however much I may regret it.

In truth, I am sure I could cancel the wedding and choose someone else. It would be simple. With a little time and patience it could be easily organized. But I remember my father's words too well to ever do that to his ghost—or my pocketbooks, which greatly need money to support Sayu and mother.

Recently, Misa has decided it is fun to stalk me. I do not know how she does it; I swear with all her photo shoots and press meetings she should be completely booked. 'Should' being the operative word.

I do, however, know _why _she does it.

She is just as annoyed about this whole mess as I, so she has decided to vent her anger.

Everywhere I turn, I see her shoving Kira ads in my face, trying to sell me crap about 'making the world a better place' and 'religious superiority'.

Most religions have condemned me to hell, but according to Misa, Kira has a different opinion. Kira-sama loves me. HA.

Not only that, but my usual stalkers (Yuri, Takada, a blonde man) seem to have vanished from the face of the earth. For whatever reason, I have had multiple people who receive a strange thrill from seeing me walk around campus. Although from an intellectual standpoint, I certainly can understand why I am so popular, I have no clue to as to the more vehement admirers' thought processes; frankly, I would rather not. There tended to be quite a few catfights a week revolving around me.

Here are fragments of conversations:

"Back off, bitch! He's mine!"

"Who says? He doesn't even like you; he actually looked at me today! His gorgeous eyes moved in my direction!"

"You whore!"

"You're just jealous! Why don't you just shove off and date your usual trash!"

Right here is where a slapping frenzy breaks out; I have observed some rather impressive backhands in my time. Then both girls will break into tears. Hormones: God's greatest gift to humanity. Thank you, Lord—we all enjoyed that particular present.

Currently, all my stalkers/admirers have either backed off completely or poofed to some unknown place away from me. In their place is the demon fiancée from beyond the Ninth Gate of Hell, the succubus I am doomed to spend eternity with. What she has become almost makes me feel glad I will be shipped off to die shortly.

Misa and Kira in the same space every day. It is more than I can bear.

Yesterday, I found her lurking inside my family's small apartment, that devious smile painting her lip-gloss smothered lips, chatting avidly with my sister about the latest installment of Eighteen (after purchasing my place from the financially strained landlord, I fixed it up for a small sum and sold it back for a profit of a lot more… then moved back in with Sayu and Mother). She was likely polluting my fourteen-year-old sister's brain with stories of love born from spandex. I nearly threw her out the window right then. I considered sneaking out of the room before I could be dragged into conversation with the hellish wife-to-be, but was unfortunate enough to attract her notice.

"Light, come sit down. I was just talking to your sister about my new photo shoot; here, take one." Before I could say a word, she shoved a picture of herself posing in some of the latest spandex at my face.

"Oh. I'm sure this will look great on my wall, A—-san."

My sister gave me a funny look, one black eyebrow raised behind her fore-headless mask. Sayu, like my mother, knew exactly what it meant to be placed on my wall. My wall, to say the least, was a dart board. A very large one.

On it were (masked, of course) images of Kira, Shinigami, Nealan Adessi, several of my stalkers, my sister's last boy friend, and, soon, Misa herself. She should be proud to be added to my Wall of Endless Torment—I actually detest her enough to give her the time of day.

Oh, if only voodoo were effective.

In retrospect, Sayu may have also noticed how I called Misa the obvious A—-san (I may have neglected to mention, although you most certainly already know—most people around here refer to others by the first letter of their last name and some variant of their ID number), instead of Misa-chan or Misa-Misa. Much of the traditional address system has slipped by the wayside in recent years; now, I call people I hate 'san', primarily for political reasons.

My sister quickly coughed into her hand and changed the course of the conversation before anything too foreboding was uttered.

"So, Misa, how've you been recently? We haven't seen you since… yesterday… when you… filled our mail box with… Kira… pamphlets…." Sayu let her voice trail off, itching her temple. Wisely, too, considering I was fuming. I am certain I appeared as if I were about to kill Misa—this is one of many such instances in which I can honestly thank You for masks.

"Did you like them? Misa spent an extra amount of time on them. She wanted to leave only the best for Rai-rai and his family!" She squeed and hugged herself. Sayu and I stared at the model in horror. No one gave me nicknames; the last nickname bestowed upon me was Light the Death God, Destroyer of Worlds. It turned out to be too lengthy, though, and did not linger for long. (….)

Who in Your name would want to call me Rai-rai?

"Rai-rai?" sputtered Sayu.

Meanwhile, I was gagging on the granola bar I had mistakenly consumed for lunch while cursing my fiancée for making me lose the only food I had attempted to digest.

"Yes, Misa thought it was adorable! And it fits him so well!"

We both stared at her in stunned silence. This… was a bit far to go while deliberately tormenting me… even for _her_.

Sayu finally looked my way and gave the slightest of nods. I needed no further encouragement.

"A—-san, I'm sorry we couldn't have you stay any longer, but my sister has a project in her English class that must completed before the day is done. To be frank, I don't think I can concentrate with you here." All lies, of course; Sayu had no project. We finished whatever schoolwork she had been assigned a week ago.

Several years prior, we had discovered some rather unsavory information about her teachers and employed its use in a blackmail scheme. Sayu picks up all the homework early, and I complete it all after making sure Sayu understood the concepts. Each one is under the impression she followed in the family footsteps of '_ingeniousity_'; really, it is I who does all the at-home work. Sayu receives excellent grades on her tests because of the lack of busywork—she uses quite a bit of the extra time to study.

"Yeah, huge project. I'm sweating just thinking about it. Sorry, Misa," Sayu moaned with a shrug that tossed her black pigtails and gave the model a sheepish grin.

"But Misa just got here." I shall assume that Misa was pouting slightly here. It was hard to tell with that mask on her face. Today, it was light pink with little roses embroidered everywhere.

"We're so sorry, A—-san, but you distract us too much. With your charming countenance…" I could not exactly mention her personality; too many lies and I am afraid I might receive a beating from my altruistic sister.

"Bye, Misa!" Sayu got up from her seated position by our cheap plastic table and practically shoved Misa out the door. I hurriedly proceeded to close the door behind the model before any further argument could be made.

We both sighed as soon as the model was safely out of sight.

"How did she get in?" I asked tentatively. Sayu disliked Misa and only put up with her for the sake of being polite.

"I don't know. Picked the lock, probably; with these cheap things it's be easy enough to get in. I've done it often enough." She glanced back at the door in familiar disgust.

We had once inhabited a real house, with two stories, and a real family that lived inside it. That was a shattered fairy tale, and we both knew it.

"Light, when are things going to get better?" I looked over at her, trying best to ignore the tears threatening to dampen her cloth mask.

"Misa isn't so atrocious as that. I thought you rather enjoyed her magazine." I felt my lips curl under the polyester fabric of the mask that constantly adorned my face.

"That's not what I meant, Ani." She sighed. I was reluctant to admit it, but I knew I was well aware of her intended meaning. This is not my favorite subject and I was not particularly in the mood to discuss it.

"Sayu, things have changed. The house we lived in doesn't exist anymore, and neither does the happy family that lived there. Forces we couldn't possibly have predicted came and tampered with everything we thought solid until our whole world was turned upside down. Madness, war, death, gods… it's a disease we no longer hold a cure for, and very few are immune to such plagues as these." Sayu nodded slowly; I doubt she understood what I was saying. After all, she was only fourteen, and I had spent three hours rewording that speech in a bored quest to attain maximum impact.

"What are you going to do about Misa?" she asked, her voice too serious for her rounded face.

"Marry her, of course."

"…This isn't just because of me and Haha, is it? Because you know, we'd understand. Even if we didn't have a nice house, or a great car, we'd still understand." She looked longingly around our cluttered apartment. My latest tower of toothpicks was still standing on a coffee-ringed table near the sweat-stained couch, tall and proud.

"No, you need a better place to live. Besides, it's not as if I'll be here long to enjoy the benefits of having Misa for a housewife.…" I was talking about the looming threat of my 'invitation' to join the fray of battle. The deadline to my eighteenth birthday was growing ever shorter.

"You aren't going," Sayu said firmly. She likely remembered my father's own departure to the battlefield and was hesitant to sacrifice anyone else to Kira and his specters, but unfortunately… there was no way to ease her fear.

"Sayu, they're losing. They'll take everyone they can get, especially the local genius in housing." I grimaced, my features now betraying my inner fears of the battle field. Masks, masks, you do occasionally do something useful….

I do not wish to be so close to Death and his bloody wings.

"Light, they can't force you! They can't!" Her voice cracked on the last word. She started shaking from the sheer restraint it took not to cry.

I tried to make myself sound aloof and uncaring as I shrugged and made an elegant hand-gesture, but failed. Miserably. "You'd be surprised what men can do if they only put their minds to it." It was a struggle to keep my voice from cracking, and, once again, I was grateful for my mask.

It still angered me that humanity could be so callous as to destroy thousands of lives in a heart beat.

I am wasting time; I need to get to class before my teacher kills me. I have not exactly been showing up quite as often as I should, and I still get over a hundred percent. So much for an 'A' for effort.

HA.


	6. The Will of God

**Scourge's Note: L will come in when L will come in. Be calm. It's only a few more chapters (and they're already written, SO NO WORRIES).  
**

**

* * *

****THE WILL OF GOD**

It's not my fault  
if in God's plan  
he made the devil  
so much stronger than the man

_- Hellfire, The Hunchback of Notre Dame_

_You are… cold. _

_It isn't a normal chill, though, and more of a… feeling. A feeling, that is, that you are supposed to feel as if you are cold. 'Uncomfortable' is the only way you can think to describe it—as if your mind and body are here, but somehow… not… together… or even, really, here at all. And, you realize, as you bend over to relieve the pain, the reason for the strange sensation—or lack thereof—has much to do with the fact that you are indeed in need of a body._

_A few seconds of bewildered attempts at lifting a hand leave you with still no physical reaction—your body is not here. You can feel it, but have no sense of where in the world it is, or even, for that matter… __**you**__ are. The disconnection is frighteningly strong—you cannot touch what you had previously thought you were lying on, see your surroundings, or hear your own breath, but you know that it is here; there is a chest moving up and down, and there is… something against a back, and colors shining down._

_Sight and touch are barely there; taste, smell and sound are gone completely._

_And in the absence of that buzz brought on by sensation, your head is clear in a strangely cloudy way. It is then you think that you have never felt quite so… alone._

_Through the sluggish haze of substantial nothingness, another presence brushes against your own, just clipping your leg. None of it makes sense, and the touch shouldn't be there—after all, you can't technically feel your body. Nevertheless, something, preferably someone, is here, and so you search blindly among the spotted colors for your companion. Try to look, rather, and instead end up attempting to find the form with words. Neither work quite as planned._

_Why aren't you at your house or church? You should be—it is where you always are. On the streets between home and life, in the studios, or at the feet of the altar—…not nowhere—is where you have always belonged._

"_Amane Misa?" The words ring throughout the hollow expanse of the senseless world. You desperately want to ask how you heard him, but even though you formed the words with your lips and push the air through your throat, no muscles make the movements and no sound grabs its baggage and takes off on a train to the speaker's ears._

"_Hm." Slow, drawn out. Rather… creepy. You would shriek, but once again your body doesn't seem to be in sync with your mind. "I had rather hoped you would be able to talk this time. Perhaps I overestimated you." The voice mulls the words over hesitantly; they have a quiet to them that speaks of an internal monologue more than anything else. _

_Trying to picture the voice in your mind, you find nothing. There are no discerning features. It simply exists. You desperately fight against the suffocating numbness—"Laughing gas," you think, "like the dentist used on me in America when I chipped my tooth on a rye seed"—to communicate with the voice. All you need is a connection to anything—to understand what is happening to you. _

_The presence smiles at your protests, clearly amused. _

_You shouldn't know that._

_You can't even see._

"_Allow me to introduce myself." There is a pause as he shifts his posture slightly, and you realize that you can't… 'feel' any of his features. Only his movements—the tilt of his head, the slant of his shoulders—penetrate the fog. "I am Kira." His voice holds a little of the amused expression his smile had carried._

_You freeze. _

_Kira. You are talking to God. You instantly understand the reason for your blindness; Kira is too beautiful to be contained accurately in any image of mortal earth. Of course you will never see him. The fact that you can hear his voice suddenly becomes more than enough. _

"_Interesting choice of words," remarks Kira. The pout in his tone seems to say he is put off by your thought process, though you can't begin to imagine why. "Interesting, but not relevant. I have matters to discuss with you."_

_His unspoken words hang in the air: _You would not be here, but for that.

_You want to jump for joy, although still distantly. Yes! This is what you have always wanted. Kira has an important job meant only for you! You are the best servant, after all—one of the prettiest, one of the most devoted, and so, so underestimated that you could do anything and no one would believe you smart enough—no one can replace you, and Kira knows it. It had been a certainty that he would take notice of you… and so Kira has summoned a dream so you can speak to him!_

Take that, Lady Takada. When has Kira ever talked to you? _A coherent, formed thought surfaces in the muddle. You would smile, was your mouth not otherwise occupied with doing nothing. This dream world is growing on you._

"_I do not talk to humans out of gratitude; only need. I called you here once again to divert your path. It is true—you are a faithful servant, but regardless of your growing rank, you are useless to me." _

_Everything stops. A solid emotion—not a fleeting sense, or a wispy feeling, but an EMOTION—slams into you like the icy floodwaters of a burst dam._

_Useless. You are useless to Kira. No matter what you do, you are useless. In your mind you hear Light's smooth voice with startling clarity. That's what the Kira's voice sounds like—Light. The cold fury, the calculation, the criticisms—it is all Light. You see now._

The useless can never be used_. You smile and the rivers drain, leaving behind empty resolve. At the very least, you are your own._

"_Misa, I gave you your chance. I let you pursue him; I let you pester him, annoy him, persuade him. Despite my prodding, it did not work, did it?" (You can't remember any 'prodding', any instructions). "Your failure has forced me into another course of action. Remember, you brought this upon yourself. You and your…" another pause, this one wrought with tension, "Light." Kira straightens at the name even as he pronounces it with a reverent respect that seems almost mocking in its care. It is impossible to mistake the tone. Vocalized hate always has a way of making its presence known, and in His world of emptiness the burning heat bites into the frigid air._

_Kira moves closer. "You are no longer my priestess, no matter how devout you might have been. You will hold firmly to your marriage and promises to Light Yagami and report to me. You will keep Yagami from the battlefield at all costs; you will make him…" with a breath, Kira stops once more before pushing the air of the next two words into your face with a force stronger than his words themselves, "love you." _

_You scream._

_You scream, and scream, and scream without sound and voice. _

_Kira cannot hear. Doesn't._

_You don't want to marry Light! You wouldn't have been doing all this every day—harassing him, pushing him, tempting him—if you wanted to marry him! You __**don't want to marry Light**__! Marrying Light is giving up Kira; you can never give up your lifeline! Especially for Light, the sweet child ruined by war, the boy turned man who has lost himself in his own mind. After everything, he cares little for life and less for people—he loathes every aspect of you, you know, and you were depending on this to force him away… and the shocked outrage fades as the nothingness says the one thing you have never realized: _it is nothing personal.

_Understanding dawns; not of Kira and not of yourself, but of Light._

_There is not much left of Light Yagami, and what there is has no value whatsoever. The remnants of his heart are buried deep beneath the roots of a tree that is withering around him._

I cannot make him love me.

_And then comes a second revelation._

_Misa Amane hates Light Yagami more than Light hates Misa._

"_You can. After all, you are human." _

_

* * *

_

Misa remembered her dream that night, unlike before.

Misa woke with sunlight streaming down upon her face. Her eyes blinked away the bright light as her surroundings came into focus.

She did not want to get up that day.

Ever so slowly, she sat up and rolled out of bed, touching her bare feet to the cold floorboards, forcing herself to some form of movement. Her eyes strayed from the wooden panels to the posters decorating the walls and the golden figurines embodying her God.

Had the room always looked so superficial?

Ignoring that thought, she stood and tottered towards the bathroom, passing by each glittering religious trinket without a second thought. Her god wouldn't mind if her thoughts strayed for a moment—he could afford to spare her a moment. After all, how much had she spared for him?

_I do not talk to humans out of gratitude; only need. I called you here once again to divert your path. It is true—you are a faithful servant, but regardless of your growing rank, you are useless to me._

The word clanged in her skull, the hammer against the single monotonous bell of mourning. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? The death of her dreams, her future, her hopes? Could Kira not spare her one last illusion?

_Misa, I gave you your chance. I let you pursue him; I let you pester him, annoy him, persuade him. Despite my prodding, it did not work, did it? _

Was it so very hard to accept that she was only human? In fables, the hero always succeeds—failure isn't a word they understand. The prophecies always come true.

There was a reason Misa no longer appreciated fairy tales.

Misa's powers of persuasion were finite; she was limited to what she could understand and, therefore, control. Light Yagami was straining Misa's narrow scope. His silver tongue had not tarnished with age, but had sharpened in its delivery. He laughed as she tried to spot him—he shifted as effortlessly, as if he were made from liquid.

_Your failure has forced me into another course of action. Remember, you brought this upon yourself._

Her reflection showed a mask-wearing, tired-eyed, artificially-blonde model pretending to be a priestess. Had that face been her downfall? Whose fault was it really that her efforts amounted to nothing—as if she had never tried in the first place?

She hated him, she loathed him; sometimes in her nightmares, she tried to kill him. She would never give herself up to him—it was not within her power. It wasn't even within God's power.

She couldn't do it.

_You can. After all, you are human._


	7. Love is Best!

**Scourge's Note: It's worth mentioning that the first diary entry occurs before Misa's dream, while the second is after. Sorry 'bout any confusion. Also, it's worthy of note: L COMES IN NEXT CHAPTER. JUST SO YOU LOVELY READERS KNOW. Also, because Carny won't really drag herself down to this level… -collapses on knees and begs for reviews-**

**There. That's over with. Yay. NOW, without further ado…. **

**

* * *

**

**LOVE IS BEST!**

It's in the way you sell every word and phrase  
And leaving me to know how much the meaning weighs  
Saying that but meaning this  
Using hands for emphasis

These parallels and silly games  
Hide your face and say the name  
Say the name

_-Studying Politics, Emery_

**Light—If Misa Speaks to Me Again, Death by Shinigami Will Look Pleasant in Comparison to What I Will do to Her **

**2012, 15 February**

**17:47—GMT+9**

You may be wondering why I've bothered to write in this infernal notebook twice in one day.

I am _that_ furious, and I fear I might damage something. Paper is far more inexpensive than couches, although I'm already beginning to regret the five pages I absolutely shredded with my pen.

Unlike the stacks of bills and magazine subscriptions _usually _waiting in my mailbox, I found four dozen Kira-sama pamphlets shoved into my mailbox and overflowing onto the pavement. (Oh happy day!) Unfortunately enough, this is two dozen more than the amount we received yesterday. If Kira pamphlets were Yen, then I'd be a billionare and have gained fifty rather enthusiastic relatives I've never heard of (the perks of being rich?).

I glared at Willy the Mr. Mailman, who (rightly so) fled to the safety of his truck, likely with the purpose of continuing his route. My glares do that to people, whether they see them or not—must be something in the accompanying body posture. In fact, I think my fifth grade teacher ended up severely traumatized after having me in the confines of her classroom.

I lied, but ah well.

And if I weren't angry enough about the conversion pamphlets, guess what else showed up on my door step. Go on. By now, You should be able to come to a logical conclusion, regardless of omniscience.

….

You are….

Correct!

Miss Misa-Misa A— in all her blonde perfection lay in wait outside my door, likely ready to drag me to a nearby church and baptize me in the name of the almighty Kira-sama. (Technically, baptism is not a part of Kira worship—irrelevant, but true).

"A—-san, honestly, what the hell am I going to do with these brochures?" I filtered any lethal threats out of my speech for the moment, deciding to save them for when I really meant it.

"Well, I thought that maybe you could come with me to chapel today." She grinned cheerily at me; I just stared at her. I had been _right_!

But also slightly suspicious.

First off, everyone knows that there are no Kira Church meetings at night. For some bizarre reason, they all seem to be afraid of the dark (clinical trials have shown it to be a side affect of losing one's mind). Secondly, even Misa is not dim-witted enough to not realize that I would rather roast myself in the confines of a thousand degree oven than be dragged kicking and screaming to the Self-Sacrificial Religious Whack-Job Camp for Lunatics (SIRs for short; Sayu created this term, too).

"No," I stated flatly, not wanting to get her hopes up by confusing her with a ranting explanation of why I hated the murderer she worshipped so wholly.

"But Light, it'll be fun." The pleading note in her voice only infuriated me further—she danced from foot to foot as if she had to pee. Misa will no doubt be the cause of my conversion from a high-school student to a serial killer.

"Misa, we hate each other. We _loathe _each other. Why do you have this sudden need to drag me off to _church_?" I said 'need' because that was clearly how severely _serious_ about this she was. If it had been a want, I might have been left in peace after the first time I chewed Misa out for attempting to drag me into the religious underworld.

"It is Misa's duty as the priestess of the church of Kira-sama to draw all followers into the light that Kira-sama has shone onto us in our time of desperation…." She prattled on about Kira for another few minutes, but I drowned her out in my own musings. I was remembering when we were younger and used to be pseudo-friends. I hadn't minded her so much back then; of course, at that point, we weren't _engaged_.

And she wasn't trying to convert me into a mindless zombie.

"Rai-rai, are you listening?" She looked at me sternly, hands clasped by one cheek.

"No." I reached behind me to open the door and hopefully escape another show-Light-the-light-before-he-is-condemned-to-oblivion-by-a-murderer-in-a-coffin harangue.

"We were talking about why I can't marry you, Light."

She would have gotten my attention immediately if she had started with this point. "Come again?" was my tentative question, asked with a quirked eyebrow and tilted head. It was too good to be true; I couldn't trust one sentence.

A nagging sensation of guilt spread through my fingers, settling into the tips and dragging them down from the wood of the door. Even though Sayu claimed that they didn't need Misa's money, I knew she was bluffing. Hell, I was getting tired of living in this apartment, too. We were barely getting by on my income; with me eventually shipped to Siberia, Sayu would _have_ to fake an I.D. Even then, they wouldn't be able to make enough. College was out of the question for me, and soon, school would be an impossibility for Sayu. I did all of her homework as it was, freeing up her schedule for aforementioned studying.

"Light, when I became priestess to the church, I gave up all earthly ties." She spoke with an authority reserved for those who are under the impression they're God. Her explanations moved on to her gratefulness towards God (Kira, she means) and the temple. Finally, she took a deep breath as she reached her climax. "Even though Misa loved Light with all her heart, she can never be with him now. He distracts her from Kira-sama and her mission."

Life must be taking its toll, because I did not see this coming. My jaw nearly crashed through the floor.

Misa refused to marry me because… because….

She was in love with a _corpse_!

I'd always made remarks about how she was perhaps a little too infatuated with the man, but I had never imagined that she could actually loved him. I'd thought she still had a modicum of sense in that petite skull of hers.

A tiny amount.

For perhaps the second time in my life, I was proven wrong.

Luckily for Misa, Sayu chose this moment to show up outside our apartment. She had (apparently) been working on creating a rough draft of the fake I.D. we knew she'd need, despite the fact that I tried to avoid thinking about it. She had wanted to try it by herself before she asked for my help.

"Misa-chan! What are you doing here?" Sayu practically shouted the last part of her question as she careened to a halt, pigtails bobbing. She was staring at me as she said it, so I knew she most likely read something negative in my posture.

"Misa just had to say that she can't marry Light." She sniffed here; all show, I was certain. We both knew that we would rather rot than marry each other. Even a chaste kiss after the 'I do' would be pushing it.

But… there were the circumstances, and the needs.

None of us said anything for a moment, being as I was too enraged to speak (my masculinity was smarting) and Sayu was too shocked. Misa bowed to both of us and walked out of the hallway without a backward glance.

Sayu put a hand on my shoulder as we both listened to her footsteps fade away. Squeezing me tightly, her head drooped. "I think it was for the best, Ani. After all, do you think any of us could survive living with her for more than three minutes?" Her lie must have sounded false to her own ears, but she was right in a sense.

How long could Misa last in Hell?

**Light—The Wedding is Still On (Unfortunately? Surprisingly?) **

**2012, 21 February**

**23:51—GMT+9**

Misa dropped by today.

It was somewhere around her usual time (six p.m.) when I ran into her.

Of course, there was a chance she had arrived earlier; I wouldn't know. All I _do_ know is that she seemed to be in just a bad a mood as myself. It felt rather nice at the time; floating and elated.

That feeling soon leaked away.

"A—-san, what brings Her Priestess to my humble door? Did Kira-sama send me a message that must be delivered by mouth?" My cheerful sarcasm did not appear to lift her spirits in the slightest. This made me _very _hopeful; perhaps some horrible disaster had occurred. She glowered at the ground (body language was a wonderful tool in a world of masks and spoken lies) as I withdrew my house keys and began to unbolt the door.

"No, Light," she mumbled, barely forming coherent words.

"No? Then what possible reason could the Magnificent Kira's prophet have for calling on but a humble man too cowardly to step into His light?" I bowed as humbly as I could, practically touching my head to the floor. From my prostrate position, I eloquently pronounced the words, "This is _such_ and honor."

After a stretch of silence, Misa spoke. Her voice was dejected as her posture. "Light, you're not making this easy."

I was liking this better every second. Misa had even adopted my usual tone of sarcasm towards the end of her statement; she had picked it up, no doubt, from our brief childhood friendship.

"But I feel so… _privileged_! The Omnipotent A—-san is speaking with me! Me! Lowly atheist bastard that I am, I… I see the light!" I held up my hands towards the chipped ceiling for dramatic effect. The only real light in the dust-ridden apartment building hallway was the blinking bulb that hung down from a string. Its glow set off the dull, flaking green of my family's doorway quite well.

"Light!" she screamed, making a move as if to kick me in the shin. Either Misa stopped herself in time, or had never intended to make contact in the first place. She took another deep breath and began to speak again.

"Misa had a dream yesterday. Kira-sama spoke to her and told her of his plans. He says that she will fail as a priestess," she hiccupped slightly, periwinkle-purple eyes (contact lenses, again…) imploring, "and that she needs to give up the title to _Lady Takada_ and marry Light!"

My spirits instantly dissolved into crumbly little bits of used wall plaster. We were still getting married despite her dementia (there was no other word for the recent developments; I was genuinely beginning to worry about Misa's health) which led her to believe she was intimate with a corpse. From the sound of it, her mental stability had declined to the point that she mistook sex dreams for divine messages.

Now that I've had a chance to ponder it over, they _have_ to be sex dreams, what with the way her pseudo-Lolita look has progressed into a full-fledged Lolita/necrophilia style over the years. Nothing else could have caused such a drastic change.

I'm beginning to realize that my views of Misa didn't change—to voice a cliché, Misa herself did.

Looking back, our problems _did_ begin with Kira. It was somewhere around the time that she began worshipping him that I began to _hate_ her.

Back to the conversation.

"What?" It was all I could get out. I did _not_ want to believe this.

"I know! Takada was never as devoted to Kira-sama as Misa was! She was texting during prayer! It's so…" here, a little growl that would have been endearing from any other woman escaped her lips, "unholy!" Misa stamped her foot and let out a grunt of frustration, perfectly complementing said growl.

"_Kira_… told you… to…" my voice shook, "_marry me_?" I offset the rhetorical question with a nice voice crack on 'marry'. This was… impossible.

In that solitary moment I was certain that Kira was a god and he existed only to torture me. If he hadn't existed, marrying Misa wouldn't have been my father's final wish and I would have no qualms about backing out of the marriage. If Kira hadn't existed, I wouldn't be wearing a mask. If Kira hadn't existed, I wouldn't have a scabby thumb. If Kira hadn't existed, Misa wouldn't be _insane_.

If Kira hadn't existed, I would be leading a life millions only _dream_ of.

"Kira-sama said specifically that it must be Y— Light, and that we must be wed before... he leaves for war." Judging by the venom in her tone, Misa was just as happy about this fact as I was. Then again, she was an actor—she might really be madly in love with me… and could have fabricated this entire charade to reattract my attention?

For once in my life, I was stuck.

My mind simply shut down and refused to work anymore. I wouldn't, _couldn't_, comprehend her words.

The concept was too horrifying.

"Misa?" I finally asked, sounding admirably vulnerable and innocent.

"Yes, Light?"

_Why haven't I killed you yet?_

"Leave. Now. Before I do something drastic. Would Kira-sama enjoy seeing your corpse on the evening news? Do you think he'd punish me for it?" I gave a harsh laugh. Misa's face crumpled, tears started to spill through the eye-holes of her mask.

"Don't… don't talk about him like that; please, Light, you can't talk like that!" Her voice bordered on hysteric; I'd never heard her like this before.

"….The wedding will resume."

And she left.

Which leaves me here, at eleven p.m., unable to sleep, listening to the pedophile next door snore her heart out.

Er… that last comment is a long story that I do not feel like getting into. If You've been keeping tabs on any news stations in Bulgaria, You'll know all about it.

It's not really the snoring that's keeping me up. It's Misa.

Dammit.

I'll have to marry her. Even though I despise her to the point of fear and won't enjoy a single minute of it, I _have_ to marry her. If I _don't_ marry, I condemn my family to a life of poverty, and I can't do that to them—not to mention, Misa would likely need support of some kind to make it through my absence. If only Father hadn't been forced into the war… nothing would have unrolled quite like this.

My only option is to wed Misa and ensure that her money will be put to use for my family's needs. If I had more time, I could go to college and earn money later… but my days are limited.

I am in my eleventh hour and dreading every second of it.

To put the cherry on the cake, Misa only agreed to marry me because her god commanded her!

Even if Kira is a god, I swear I will make him rue the day he ever thought to use me in such a fashion.

He will wish he had never existed.


	8. I Am Alone

**I AM ALONE**

Who is the monster and who is the man?  
Sing the bells, bells, bells, bells  
Bells, bells, bells, bells

_-Bells of Notre Dame, Hunchback of Notre Dame_

His sodden hair clung to his forehead underneath the roughly hewn, sack-cloth mask (and it was wet, but it shouldn't have been—he couldn't remember the last time he touched water). Dreary noises of pain and emptiness echoed off the walls, coaxing him into convulsive shivers that wracked his thin frame mercilessly. Black eyes flicked from stone to stone, calculating his chances of survival in the cell as half-formed, desperate thoughts spun through the air. And he looked around him, out from behind his mask, out from the rough-hewn holes that tried to pass themselves off as eyeholes; all he could see was darkness. Dark life, dark abode, dark breath, dark death—everything was so, so dark.

All unspoken words pointed in one direction: the percentages of life were incredibly slim, and appeared even tinier when placed next to Death's numbers.

The chains on his wrists and ankles weighed him down like anchors, dragging him under, _binding _him to the ocean's lightless bottom. He was drowning in the cold waters, and nothing could prevent it. His hands hung limp over the freezing metal; his arms lay slack against the hard wall behind him. Jagged stones and chipped limestone scored his back, flaking off into new and reopened wounds.

No solace was to be found.

Not even in sleep.

Throughout the prison hold, the screams of the dying echoed as men and women alike cried out in pain. The only sounds were harsh, never-ending shrieks reverberating in the gloom and painting the dusky night crimson with blood.

Had the sky always been so red as it dripped down onto the snow at an such an agonizingly slow pace? Had silence always sounded so morbid, like a knife against the back of his ashen neck? Had it—the Silence—always been there, hand in hand with the shimmering bells? Or could he only now hear it, as, for seconds at a time, the world ceased, taking the sounds with it? Had he been blinded all his life by his own sense of justice and pride and only now had taken the time—_had _the time—to open his eyes and see an inescapable prison? Had the chains been there all along, concealed by the gossamer wings of delusion and illusion?

The silver moonlight gleamed ominously against the ceiling's metal grate, peeking its way through a single hole the size of a pinprick, flitting through the small window like a butterfly… sitting for only a few moments before flying away behind the clouds. They were his last pieces of ethereal beauty in this pile of scarlet waste, this, the final resting place of forgotten souls. Even the silver bells, with their pure tones and soaring chimes, were horrendously malformed. _Wrong_.

Two jailers strolled through the shady corridor and past the insomniac's unlit cell, glancing carefully at the bolted door. He couldn't see them, but the bells—the bells made everything louder… clearer.

"Can't believe he's not dead yet." The first man's voice, thick with Russian influences, was hushed but unmistakable among the rasping pleas for death.

Pausing, the other man, clearly a born-and-bred American mutt, peered at the walls as if attempting to see through them. After a moment, he shrugged and slouched around to face his partner. "He's an odd one, that kid. Been there… how many months? A year? More? And only tortured twice. Maybe three times. Waste of cell space, if you ask me."

Russia, who had not even bothered to slow for America, was now at least six feet ahead, somewhere between the Herzegovinian and Kazakhstani ambassadors' prisons. "How come he hasn't been sacrificed yet?"

"I hear Mello says Kami-san wants him alive; the She-man says 'he may be odd but he's important'."

"An infidel _important_? What's next; a flying pig?" Sharing a chuckle, the pair moved on.

The prisoner looked away from the jeering men. Could they hear them? Could they hear the bells? Could they hear the delicate toll, the chiming music so elegant it bordered on speech, on words? Could they hear the voice of the bell? The voices? Or were they blind and deaf, just as he had been?

The silence was filled with them now, every second of it. The gongs, the peals…. They never stopped.

"Come on," American-Mutt gestured flippantly at a cell; the swoosh moved the air and changed the bells. "Better get that muscle guy over there. He's next; Kami-sama doesn't wait." The two men walked past his cell and to another man still in good condition, their footsteps clomping over the sounds and breaking into the thoughts. They opened the door and proceeded to drag the man upstairs where the demons and monsters waited with open jaws.

And… the bells.

_How could you have been so blind? _the voice whispered.

* * *

Ages passed.

His shackles were removed. Once—twice, maybe more (his memory abandoned him)—he found himself dying in a new room, shackled to a new wall.

* * *

Neal felt the sweat running beneath his mask; his eyes widened in horror as he shot upright, only to stare the shinigami straight in the face. There was a cry lodged in the back of his throat and he managed to release it as a series of coughs. Stumbling, he fled to his private, surprisingly plain bathroom, where he splashed cold water across his face, refusing to look at the child-like monster that trailed close behind.

He said nothing as the cool water dripped beneath his mask, doing nothing for his mental state. He looked into the mirror only to see the reflection of the cool-eyed shinigami staring at the glass with a disconcerting curiosity. What could he perform with the glass Neal stood in front of? What kind of demonic magic could he unleash through a simple reflection?

Neal closed his eyes and counted to five; usually, by the time he reached six, the demon got bored and left. This time he didn't.

"You should realize, Nealan, just what you have done to this world of yours." The white-haired child-god looked indifferent as he spoke, leaving Neal to guess at the subtext of his words like a blind man searching for a blue rose.

"I did what any normal human being would do," retorted the journalist too swiftly. But then, the demon always knew what he was thinking—what was the point of trying to hide it? Instinct? Or the belief that he still had one last refuge from the monster, the desperate faith that there was one place where he was still safe from those blue eyes?

"Yes, I suppose you did. You murdered over two-thirds of the population, and your actions continue to kill off a good portion of the new generation that comes this way. You single-handedly will destroy your own race; think of all the children you killed, all the orphans you created, all the men you shot and watched bleed to death. After all, any normal man would have done as you have done." The demon's words were soft and pitying—but there was no pity and Neal knew that. The demon had no pity. He was pain, suffering, irony; he would never be pity. Neal tried to shut out the words, but they swelled around him. He saw those wounded soldiers rotting as their fellows deserted them; he saw those crying children starving in the streets of unfamiliar cities.

"Is that why you torture me when I sleep? Because you think I should feel guilty?" Neal prayed that was the reason but he knew it wasn't; he had known the demon too long to believe that. Achos had other plans. He didn't care whether Neal rotted in guilt or not—so long as he was useful.

"How is it torture, human? It is simply what you know is true, all you have accomplished in the last four years of your life." The demon lied through his teeth. He knew every morning how Neal awoke screaming, sweating, crying out for something that wasn't there. He enjoyed watching Neal struggle in the tumult of guilt that rolled like a sea in his bed-sheets each night. The dreams—the horrible nightmares that consisted of faces he had never seen, soldiers he had never spoken to, prisoners he had never condemned—all of them dying, starving, wasting away before his eyes.

They could never speak to him; he was an observer, nothing more. No matter how he screamed at them, they never listened, too wrapped in their own suffering. They might look up only for a moment, but it would be a blank, empty stare, one of sorrow and desperation.

He remembered the dead eyes of the soldier, dressed in his enemy's grey uniform that he remembered too well, drenched in blood as he was shot to death by Kira's troops, coughing the red liquid as he writhed on the ground.

He hadn't died for three hours. No one found him, no one came for him—he died alone and afraid with only Nealan there to watch him bleed to death. The soldier had screamed, cried to the heavens for mercy, sobbed as he fell on the ground and eventually stopped breathing. Neal could do nothing but watch, and as always, the death was the worst part—the moment when he swore they could see him, when they would stare and ask him why.

Why hadn't he done something? Why had he killed them? Why had he killed their fathers, their daughters, their mothers, their sisters and brothers…. He didn't know the answer; he had no answer for them. He would merely shake his head and pray they wouldn't ask him again—but they always did the next night.

Why Nealan, why do you torture us? Why do you kill our children, our innocent starving children? Why can't you save us? Why, why, why?

"Why do you look as if I shoved a knife in your back, Nealan? Why?" asked the demon with a smile, his childish blue eyes crinkling in amusement, framed by his mop of white hair. Neal said nothing but controlled his fury with a great amount of effort; the demon would kill him if it had half the chance. Nealan would not give it that chance.

"I am glad to see I delivered by point." The demon turned from Nealan's side, feathered wings dragging behind him across the tile floor of the bathroom before pausing at the door and turning once more. "By the by, I forgot to mention that the blonde apprentice means to assassinate you. Good luck."

* * *

**Disclaimer: There once was a young authoress who believed she owned Death Note. You know what happened to her? SHE DIED! A very, very gruesome death; it involved steak knives and sporks. Plastic sporks! You wanna know who the authoress was? IT was ME! (Insert thunder/lightning) **

**I do not own Death Note. **

**Scourge's Note: Bahaha, the long-awaited appearance of L. Showing your appreciation would be kinda nice. ;D (And don't mistake me; that's a request for reviews, not pornography. D:)  
**

**Oh, and if you're confused, don't worry. There's a lot that's not supposed to be explained. XD Do let us know if it's a little -too- confusing, though.  
**


	9. Alone I Am

**ALONE I AM  
**

On, on they send, on without end  
Their joyful tone to every home  
Ding dong ding dong

_-Carol of the bells_

Light stared at the ceiling, eyes locked onto a spot right above his head. He wondered briefly if God was watching him with repressed laughter. Bastard. He surely took enjoyment in ruining others' lives. Maybe that was why Lucifer fell; he couldn't take being pushed around anymore. Or maybe—just maybe—he didn't fall. Perhaps he leaped.

He turned his head towards the clock that read forty-nine past one a.m. He should have been sleeping; he had school tomorrow and he needed to be able to think in the morning.

_Of course, that doesn't really matter anymore,_ he reminded himself. _Once they ship you off, your education won't matter and you'll die, freezing to death without a grave above your head. Oh, sure. They'll make a memorial for you somewhere—a black slab of stone with thousands of names engraved in it._

**One Y— Light and Y— Soichiro, numbers ****302 875 and 302 873****: both presumed dead. **

He stood and walked over to his desk, pulling out the black college-rule notebook in the false drawer and flipping it open to his last entry. He pulled out a pen to write, then paused and stops. What should he write, anyway?

More about Misa? More about God? More about tomorrow's marriage?

After he died, who would be left to read this notebook? Who would bother to read through endless pages of 'just another teenager' complaining about the end of the world?

He closed the notebook with a sigh.

It was inevitable, he supposed, that he should marry Misa. After all, he may not have had any, say, reason to pursue his dreams, but Sayu still had a chance. Sayu would survive. He would make sure of it. She had a future to look forward to—maybe not the best future, but a plausible future none the less.

He would give her the dreams he always wanted. He would make it possible, because with Misa's income and inheritance they would no doubt be wealthy enough to get by—to get Sayu into college.

It would be his last favor.

Light hated the sound of bells, from the small tinkling of crystal to the thunderous voices that rang through the sky. Though he had hardly heard, and never understood, he knew now what each toll brought.

The first time he heard, the world had been painted black and white by death's artist hand. Each face had been a different shade of melancholy as they silently wept for the world—a world so empty of color and life that it had truly felt like _he _had died that day, and his father was still in the joyful world of the living. His hands had clenched together as he restrained the urge to scream, to cry, to curse. Instead, he had remained silent as those large, ominous bells stole the words from him.

After the funeral concluded and the guests of the funeral departed, when only Light was left in the room is when he finally walked over to the closed casket, and wrenched open the lid. The picture of his smiling unmasked father cracked on the pavement. Nothing. Inside he found nothing. Not his living father, nor the dead one they all said existed—no body to burn, no ashes to mourn. They had brought him nothing.

Over his shoulder, as he searched the coffin for a missing father, he felt there was someone standing behind him, looking over his shoulder, searching for missing answers as well.

The second time was not nearly so potent, so ghastly and so wrought with the fragile webbings of anger. He had been standing at a video store, watching each television screen with amused interest, wondering just what could be done with so many little screens—each told a different lie. Just as he was about to leave, he heard them, softly at first, then marginally rougher.

He had turned around to search out the source, but instead he saw a ragged man holding in his hands a small cluster of silver bells, his eyes pleaded to the world for mercy. Below his feet had been an upturned hat with a few hundred yen stored inside; the world had no room for beggars.

Just as Light was about to leave, he had heard a series of foot steps. A group in white clustered together like holy missionaries. Each had held out a cream-colored pamphlet with a joyous smile. Again, Light heard the tinkling of the bells in a steady rhythm. The group placed a large amount of money within the cap. Light's eyes narrowed as he watched the white robed group confront the dirty man. The beggar looked surprised, shocked, but happy. Now he would be able to eat.

But that had not been the end of it—the group looked at the man with eager, expectant eyes. They had mouthed some unintelligible word, and the man looked frightened, but then his gaze slipped away from them and he saw the money in his cap. His greed outweighed his fear.

He had stood slowly and walked away with the group in white, tottering slightly on weary legs. They had promised him riches, they had promised him food—they had promised him his heart's desire, but they had apparently forgotten to mention death. Each small bell had dropped from the man's calloused hands to the pavement below, individually striking the pavement once with a final, resounding ring before falling silent; each one representing the promises the Servants never intended to keep and the promise they had forgotten to mention.

Once again, Light felt as if it were not just him standing there on that abandoned street—it felt as if someone else was watching too.

Now, now is the third time.

Light felt him once again, standing behind his shoulder, still simply watching—still standing alongside Light, as together they watch the world fall apart and listen to the tolling of bells.

Today was different. Today he wore neither the black clothes from the world of death nor the ragged clothes from the world of the living—today, he wore the brightened clothes of a fantasy, the bright fabrications that clouded over the sky, covering his face in a brilliantly-painted mask. He heard, distantly, the organ playing and the cheerful voices of various family and friends gathered to witness.

He tried not to notice the all-too-conspicuous cameras aimed on his masked face and overworked body. After all, today was a day the world would remember; a day when Tokyo's brightest star would receive her Happily Ever After. Of course _everyone_ would wish to watch, to see someone's happy ending, and that in itself would give them their own.

Light didn't care about them; he didn't want to. To him, there was only one other person in the room, and he didn't need a television to watch.

In the front of the pews, he can see his mother crying, and whether it is of joy or desperation, he cannot know. It hardly made a difference anymore, why a person bothered to cry over his fate. Whether it was from joy or sorrow… it no longer made a difference.

Next to her sat Sayu. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking across the room to the seats of the bride's guests, the foreign movie stars and directors, all waiting expectantly for the bride to march down through the church. Suddenly, Light felt as though he were drowning, drowning in the sea of masks, of empty faces, of illusions and fantasies. Even as he tread, he felt himself sinking to the bottom until he saw death walk down the aisle, robed in white.

She smiled behind her own mask, a white, expressionless face that seemed to mock Light even as it drew closer. _Death is cruel, death is merciless; death is the god that stands behind him, watching the world decay in his fingertips with a smile, because he knows, he knows there is no escaping him. Sooner or later, he will win; he is patient._ And standing next to him, Light felt small. He didn't feel like the brilliant prodigy he had been acclaimed; he felt small, he felt insignificant, he felt fragile, and everything was spinning away, melting away before him as he stood in the shadow of death.

Most of all he, felt human.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: I looked back and realized that I did not once thank the reviewers, favoriters, or alerters. D: This is why Carni should be the one writing the author's notes. Bah. SO I'M DOING THAT NOW, because we love you all, and thank you deeply. :D**

**...And the slight inconsistency in writing style stems from the fact that the second half of the last chapter was rewritten last week, while this chapter was written... about a year and a half ago. Because of that rewriting, I believe we may have neglected to answer important questions regarding the character of Achos... and will be more "officially" introducing the Neal/Achos pair later on. It'd be cool if you could give us an idea of what would help, as the revisions screwed things up a bit.**

**And, as always, thank you for reading, reviewing, and (hopefully) enjoying.  
**


	10. Death's Other Kingdom

**DEATH'S OTHER KINGDOM**

My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies  
Fairy tales of yesterday will grow, but never die  
I can fly, my friends!

_-The Show Must Go On, Queen_

Apples. When the world went up in smoke, they forgot about the shiny apples. Why was Ryuk the only one who could remember them? Even the king forgot the apples. Everyone was too busy dying to notice the orchards left forgotten. They all screamed 'help me, help _me_' when all their delicious fruits were dying.

That's part of the reason Ryuk would never understand humans. They didn't care about the apples.

Love, death, ambition, power—they were all, in actuality, far inferior to apples. The Shinigami surrounding him were woefully ignorant of this as the humans donned the masks, striking the gods out of their gambling habits. By thwarting their notebooks, diminishing their life spans, those thin veils of plastic condemned all Shinigami to death; they were far too busy fretting and dying to listen when he tried to tell them about the apples.

It was entirely Sidoh's fault, all of it, and Ryuk would never forgive him.

About every one hundred years or so, the Shinigami King came up with a name to help keep the human population in check. Ryuk wasn't allowed to keep the population in check because last time, he had accidently started the Bubonic Plague and killed so many Europeans that the whole racial diversity thing got out of whack again (or was it the economy? Ryuk couldn't remember, now; the yelling and punishment were the only memories on his mind). As a result, Ryuk was forbidden to go into the human world unless he had two Death Notes—and when was that going to happen?

The King picked Sidoh, so Ryuk decided to pick Sidoh, too. After all, Ryuk wanted to have some fun if he couldn't have any apples. So he told Sidoh what he would have done if he had been chosen: he'd get the humans to kill each other. It was brilliant. Genius. Worthy of the shiniest of apples.

He'd drop the notebook in a human's way, a human who would use it thoroughly—not one that was too afraid or too meek. Not like the other times he had accidentally dropped someone's notebook; this time would be different. This time, he would have watched for them, picked one out. One that would be more lethal than all the Shinigami combined.

Sidoh nodded his head and rushed after a Notebook easily taken. If someone tried to steal a Notebook (which Ryuk had, and more than once), there was only one Shinigmami to consult—that weird little humanoid who annoyed the King too much. Said perpetual irritation meant that his Notebook was free game. Besides being short, weak, and ultimately useless, the King would look the other way if someone went harassing the white-haired little Shinigami.

Because he was vertically challenged, and puny, and really, really fragile-looking, like a dust devil might knock him over, he just missed his Notebook as it fell down into the human world. Swearing in Greek and half-hopping after Sidoh, the look of sadness in his unusually big blue eyes was priceless—almost as bittersweet as a Pink Lady apple.

The boy had stood shaking with rage, looking after his fallen Notebook with an expressionless face. It almost reminded Ryuk of the masks all the humans wore now, that pale white face.

The Shinigami had laughed it off even as they gambled away their life spans, watching idly as the scorned Shinigami marched stiffly off into the desert, his eyes never turning back as he walked away and the bandages wrapped around his feet dragging limply behind him.

The apples died because of Adessi, Nealan Adessi.

Ryuk had never heard of the guy before, but now, his name was everywhere. It was the only name posted in big capital letters, the only one that kept repeating. It was like they were waiting for him to die. All of them. (And he would be dead, he really would—someone would have hunted down a photo of him, enlarged it to epic proportions, and pasted it to the side of a blimp until the rotten journalist dropped dead, hands clutching his heart. He would be dead, that is, if there were any pictures to find. Which there weren't.)

All the humans blamed the reporter, Adessi. They blamed his documentary; they blamed him for finding the Notebook and testing it. They didn't want to know—the Shinigami didn't want them to know—but now, none of them could undo what he did with a simple video camera.

Ryuk hadn't expected his idea to take that fatal turn. All he had wanted was a little fun, a little entertainment to pass eternity. Was that so wrong?

And then the masks started, and all the Shinigami began to realize how serious the humans were. It started with Justin, who panicked and written too many heart attacks too fast, too soon after the reporter spoke. If he had been later, if he hadn't killed so many, it might have been passed off as false. But too many died, and the rioting began.

Ryuk distantly remembered the suffocation of infants as their parents frantically pulled bags over their heads in an effort to hide their faces from sight. He remembered the bodies trampled underneath the frightened mobs.

All the while, the Shinigami started their own brawls. They each crowded about the pools, trying to find someone left to kill. The panic caused more and more humans to die. It was too obvious; there were too many corpses, too many heart attacks. There were fewer and fewer faces left. Soon it became photos, videos, tabloid magazines and milk cartons—anything for a name, anything for a face. Soon, even those disappeared, drifted away on the smoke of bonfires and apartment buildings.

He remembered their fear, their panic, their horror… but what struck Ryuk the most was the scent of burning apples.

* * *

"Failure. How is it that humans are capable of such failure." The white-haired god spoke solemnly as he stared over his dutiful subjects, daring them to oppose his invisible (unseen as a shadow in the might; always unseen) power as he stood beside the retired reporter, his hands clenching his Death Note with the temptation to kill them all. His blue eyes turned from the mass of people to his loyal, if somewhat dishonest, figurehead.

"They always disappoint me, and I can not understand why. It should not be this difficult to break a man. It should not be this difficult to keep one alive and out of my hair. And yet, they always manage to surprise me."

Of course, Nealan ignored him, even as he spoke. Achos wasn't one to waste words—and yet, sometimes, he felt the wind paid more attention to him than the reporter.

"He flails against the fates; he smiles up at them even as he tears their tapestry to pieces. It is both amusing and horrifying to watch. It is why I can not _see _him. How am I to see him if he cannot see himself? If he refuses to see himself, I can only spot him through others. His ambition is endless. He is a challenge, an advisory, an unknown rival." His pale, bandaged hands moved away from the Notebook to rest upon the edge of the balcony in an almost human gesture—but as always, the all-seeing eyes betrayed him. (The blue eyes that could see past distance, past cloth and plastic, past lies, past minds—past everything but time; it was those blue eyes that frightened the reporter so much.)

"She failed me. How could she possibly fail me? She is not incompetent. Far from it—her cunning marks her as a true power among the world. She would fare well against even the great detective, L. She might even beat him in a game or two. What is a boy to her? A young, angry, boy whom everyone abhors? Nothing." The shinigami did not move, but continued to lean against the railing as he spoke, his blue eyes searching his own thoughts for some flaw, some mistake within his planning process. They explored the crooks and crannies of the labyrinth of his own mind and saw nothing, nothing amiss. Nothing that should have gone wrong.

"Perhaps it is simply his nature to reject the gods and their prophets. Perhaps he can see past their blind priestesses. Perhaps he could see past mine, and see my eyes through hers. Is that what love is—a series of lies and deceit so thick that one can no longer see through their web? He must have sharp eyes; eyes as sharp as his hatred for all mankind, no doubt. Almost as sharp as his hatred for me. Oh, yes, sometimes I believe that this one puny mortal can see exactly what I am."

The Shinigami paused, looking to the reporter, appearing more like a demon than he ever had. As his lips twisted into a ruthless smile—the smile he donned when he drove L Lawliet to suicide with his whispers, when he tortured Misa Amane through forgotten dreams. The bloodthirsty grin was never accompanied by a human emotion, but simply an unnamable drive—pure ambition and hatred, untainted by human nature.

_And what would that be? A monster, a demon, the Devil himself? _

"He sees me as you do not; as my subjects do not; as Misa Amane does not; as the great detective L does not. And he hates me for it, just as I hate him for it—just as I love him for it. Yes, this is love. Love is hatred, love is the chase; love is the victory at the end of a battle. Love is his blood scattered and lost among the blood of so many—his body left rotting in the earth like so many corpses." The smile faded once more as the congregation eased.

Nealan made to leave the great hall before the Shinigami could add another word. He was unsurprised when the Shinigami uttered one last line in before Nealan could escape his jagged, child-like eyes.

"She did not love him. Not like she should have. That was my error."

* * *

"_Come on, take off the mask—or are you scared?" asks one of the giggling teenagers as they stand in front of the bathroom mirror. The girls all squeeze into the room with some difficulty, attempting to compact themselves in and allow a view of the poor victim. _

_You find yourself standing beside the mirror, inside the mirror, staring back at the crowd with a vague feeling of guilt. You know how this is going to end; you've seen this room before; you've seen these girls before, in a thousand different masks, in a thousand different places. They never change—it is only you who becomes wiser, weaker…._

_The girl has blonde, curling hair held back in a ponytail; she looks at her masked reflection in terror, green eyes growing wider by the minute. She is a child, a simple child. It would be such a pity to end her life. _

_And yet you know it will end by the end of the night—within a few moments, it will all end for her. And what will she have? Her life is made of such a fine thread, so easily broken._

_(The morgue is still stuffed with bodies, cold, frozen bodies—bodies of children, foolish children.)_

"_No. If you take off your mask, the death gods kill you." She turns, trying to leave while she still can, but the crowd pushes her forward. It is nothing but a game to them, a rumor. They are too young—they don't remember the dead; they don't remember the streets filled with cadavers. _

_You remember. _

"_Please, death gods? It's just a story. If you weren't such a chicken, you'd know that. It's a fairy tale, I mean, it's never been scientifically proven, or anything. Take off the mask." The ringleader is cruel as she forces the girl to stare at her own reflection, to stare at you. There are tears in her eyes. Perhaps, deep down, she realizes she's about to die. _

_You want to tell her it's not worth it, that you're sorry for what you've done to her, you're sorry you killed her. No one ever told you that you would kill them all, all those children. _

"_There's no such thing as death gods," she whispers, her hands moving to the front of her mask so that she can rip it off her face in one fell swoop, so that she might see her pale reflection. _

_You want to tell her you've seen them, you've seen the worst one of them all. You've seen his pale blue eyes (you have? When? In dreams, you think, dreams like this, like the one before this, and the one before… before...) as he sentences girls like her to death without a moment's hesitation. He has no guilt, he has no conscience; he would kill this girl just as fast. He wouldn't even deem it a sacrifice because he simply can't tell the difference between a child and a criminal. That is a Shinigami. That is what she would give herself over to so easily. _

"_There's no such thing as death gods." _

_You want to tell her that it makes no difference if she repeats it: If she takes off that mask, she will die. They have no mercy for children. _

_Without saying it a third time, she rips off the mask and stares at you, her eyes filled with stunned tears as her heart gives one final thump. She falls, her head bashing into the bathroom sink, blood streaming from the gash on her forehead. Her body hits the floor and the screaming starts. _

_You hate the screaming. What did they expect? Did they expect her to live? Did they really think Gods of Death don't exist? Sometimes, human stupidity amazes you. You can't ever see yourself giving up to them. _

_But in that one instant when you saw that poor, tragic face, you felt her thrust a knife through your heart. _

_You wake up. _

_

* * *

_

The demon stood above the reporter, his bandaged hands clasped together as he leaned over him, face to face, his blue eyes twinkling in merriment. Nealan couldn't help but think he was humoring the thing.

He rolled over.

Still, the creature that masqueraded as a boy stared down at him, his pale lips stretched into a twisted smile.

The reporter wished desperately that he didn't have to sleep, because he could never be safe when he slept. Not with the demon standing above his bed.

* * *

"And you know what happens if you kill a human?" whispered Ryuk conspiratorially to the newly-forming Shinigami, hardly containing the snicker from his voice. Of course, they didn't answer. They had no mouths as of yet—they were just sacks, bulbous lumps of membrane and rock and bone and blood and Lord knows what else. But they did have ears.

"Light Yagami will find you, and he'll kill you. Because he can do that, and he will do that, if he finds out you've been killing off his people." Ryuk couldn't help it. He started to cackle madly. Really, the King made it too easy to have fun.

Ryuk had never really gotten over the fact that Achos was out wreaking havoc on the human world while he himself was stuck with the few Shinigami left. So far, it was down to him and Sidoh. Then, the King decided to make new Shinigami—ones that could see through things. Things like masks. Sounded like a good idea. But then, Ryuk was bored and needed some good entertainment. Killing off the Shinigami race sounded like very good entertainment.

"He'll smile as he reaches through the pool and slits your throat with a… ball point pen…." Ryuk trailed off, trying to think of something else to add to his horror story, tainting the minds of new, innocent Death Gods before they could even open their eyes.

At first, Light Yagami had been a fable, a face in a crowd of millions, before the whole Shinigami crisis—one name that he had managed to remember, but forgotten to write down. Well, alright, Ryuk forgot what he looked like. It was the name that was needed, anyway, not the face. And the name did sound threatening, menacing—almost like the name of some dead human god.

And so, Light Yagami, the Killer of Gods was born: A mythical human with the power to see through the boundaries of worlds, who could kill with a single glance from his (brown, blue, green?) eyes. Sometimes, Ryuk wondered what this human really looked like—what he really acted like, whether he was anything close to a god killer.

But it was the name Ryuk wanted, not the human. The name was much more fun than another boring human, a single face among millions now hidden behind a dull mask. Ryuk was much more infatuated with the name.

"And then he'll eat the sand that flows through your veins like it's a bushel of apples—shiny red apples." Ryuk felt the metaphor was off, but he couldn't think of anything better. Besides, he was pretty sure the dull sacks of lifeless bodies got the idea.

"Then he steals your Death Note, and burns it! With magical fire! Watching as the smoke rises through the air, singing his crimson eyes." There, crimson was better than a normal color, anyway. His Light Yagami was going to have red eyes, like the apples Ryuk craved so much.

"Then he skulks back to the shadows of human existence, waiting patiently for his next victim. His next meal…."

Achos might have the fun of terrorizing the entire human population, but at least Ryuk got the fun of messing with the unborn Shinigami population. Sometimes, he wondered why it was so easy to trick the king.

Yes, Light Yagami was definitely the best invention Ryuk had concocted.

* * *

Misa stared straight ahead, her brown eyes dull as she woke up. She stumbled forward until she was sitting in front of a mirror. In sleep, her mask had skewed to the point of near suicide. Slow and shaking, her fingers moved and readjusted the mask to cover all but the bottom of her nose and her mouth.

Sayu stared at her through the open doorway, watching the blonde model touch a small idol of the first Kira—the savior, the messiah, the Kira that was supposed to come back. The one that was supposed to save humanity from itself. The one that hadn't come back. Wouldn't come back.

Misa didn't turn away, even as she held the golden figure between her fingers, staring at nothing but her own reflection. Even to Sayu, she looked wrong, broken—a soulless doll. She wasn't the bouncy model that had visited Light; she wasn't the mischievous girl that had stuffed their mailbox with spam. She wasn't anything in that moment, more a piece of furniture than her heavily decorated bed or her wardrobe.

"Kira," she mouthed, her lips barely moving, her eyes growing more glazed by the minute. On her desk, Sayu could make out a blue check, enscribed with a dollar sign more numbers than Sayu wanted to see. Numbers she didn't need to see. What was she doing? What did she think she was doing? What would Light do when he saw that the whole thing had been for waste?

"Have mercy on my soul," she mouthed again, closing those empty brown eyes as she dropped the figurine and turned away from the mirror, taking the check with her, taking Light's money with her. Sayu wanted to stop her, ask her where she thought she was going, what she would do with it.

Sayu stepped aside to make room for the new Misa, the dead Misa, the corpse-like Misa. Was this why Light hated her so much? Could he see this dead thing through her mask, through the emotional makeup? Sayu didn't say anything as her sister-in-law passed by, not even glancing in her direction, just moving forward and out the door.

Sayu didn't know, but that was not the first check to float from Misa's hands and into the church of Kira. Sayu only knew that it would not be the last.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: And here I am, left once again with the Author's Note because Carni hates doing it as much as I do, but has the advantage of not having the edited, titled, and song-lyric'd documents on her computer. Damn her. And I do suck at them. Er, so, Achos. Confusion. It... should be clearing up. A bit. I hope.  
**

**A huge thanks to those of you who've reviewed-especially Gravefire/The Crimson Musician, who's been impressively regular (which is supposed to be a compliment, but sounds rather mechanical /end me being suckage at complimenting and gratitude-ing). We love you all. :D  
**


	11. Closed Hands

**CLOSED HANDS**

Jacob's ghost for the girl in white  
Blindfold for the blind

_-Bye Bye Beautiful, Nightwish_

Light's eyes closed as he waited at the front of the chapel. He did not look up when he heard the music play, for his mind was far away. Anyone watching may have thought he looked solemn or thoughtful, but couldn't see the mental turmoil hiding inside the glaringly cheery mask, or how he fought to remain calm while his freedom slowly slipped from his grasp.

It wasn't marrying Misa that he loathed; he could live with marrying Misa. No, it was what the act of matrimony symbolizes that had him wanting to bolt towards the door.

The wedding itself was western style—Misa's choice, as neither of them wished to partake in a tradition native to their own country. But truth be told, most of it was for Misa's publicity in the west, as was exhibited by the numerous photographers snapping pictures of the décor and gloomy husband-to-be.

Each face behind the camera was covered by a formal mask for the occasion and Light couldn't help but smirk at the sight. No doubt the wedding would be publicized in some magazine within the next three days. Beside the picture of blonde model and distant husband would be a caption from the editor, or perhaps a quote from the happy bride herself—something, perhaps, about undying love, or happy endings, not mentioning, of course, her lack of enthusiasm towards her husband.

And vice versa.

What would he tell them (because they _would_ ask)? Would he tell them the truth, that he was dirt poor and was only using the poor girl to save his family? That he only married so that when he was killed in the army, his family would have some source of income? That he was only obligated in the first place because of a stupid agreement between fathers on their death beds? And what would they possibly say to that? What could they say to the truth?

And her… what could they possibly say about her? A— Misa, the woman who married a man poorer than the mud on the street—not for love, but because her god told her too, because a corpse's successor had proclaimed in his ever-so-holy manner that she must be wed to the son of Y— Soichiro. What would they possibly say to that? But, of course, they wouldn't interview him; after all, he was no one. Not even a genius, anymore. No, they would stay far away from the moody husband lurking in the corner and only speak with the cheering actress-of-a-wife. A few words, maybe, from him, beside a picture of an empty face, a mask. Yes, publicity had indeed fallen since the day the world had shed their faces.

He felt the attention turn from him towards the back of the room where his bride stood draped in white, a veil concealing her masked face in a tradition that was more ridiculous than ever. Even when the veil was removed, he would never see her living face. It would only be a corpse that would bear her features.

He turned to see her mouth curved downwards, brown eyes—she had neglected her contact lenses—staring straight ahead as she walked steadily down the aisle. Alone, with only the spirit of her father to accompany her, the ghost of yet another fallen solider, another reminder of what the future held for Y— Light.

She stepped up beside him, her eyes empty. They looked at each other, searching for sympathy in the other's eyes, praying for some hint of pity for the fate they were both condemned to.

Her by a god, and him by a government. How different their lives seemed to be. How could one man bind them together with nothing but two rings and couple of spoken vows? Words, nothing but meaningless words—nothing that could keep them together, but even in that empty promise, it held no hope for the world after death.

A pseudo wedding for their fake romantic lives. Somewhere out there, someone would believe the words they spoke were true and held meaning, and perhaps for them this would be what true love was, because in truth love was just as much of a sham as his future.

**In the Words of Y— Light**

**2012, 4 May**

**20:30****—GMT+9**

One might be wondering, if they read this, 'why the hell is this boy writing in a diary? Why isn't he on his honeymoon, entertaining his wife? Why is he writing in a journal instead of participating in the rather romanticized tradition of married life?'

The answer to those questions is rather simple and requires no further explanation. Misa has given herself to God. Not that I am particularly bothered, of course—I never wanted to sleep with her in the first place. I've neither really had time for a full-on relationship nor, for that matter, the personality. Women are too high-maintenance for my taste, always complaining about the lack of dates, lack of commitment, lack of romance…. Look at another woman and they'll scream their heads off. Jealous harpies.

The last girl friend I had was named Kyoko. I was fifteen at the time, immensely busy but still in denial about the fact that God existed and hated my guts. Young and foolish, I thought I was nothing short of a god and could not only work three part time jobs and maintain good grades, but maintain popularity as well. Needless to say, this little experiment failed shortly.

Kyoko herself was what most would call cute. She had a short, pixie-like figure and an even shorter attention span; her hair was usually held up in a pony-tail or some other stylish fashion statement. While she was wearing nothing close to Misa's Lolita wardrobe, she had fairly short skirts and was, alas, a trophy girl friend, a statement to the world that Light Yagami could have a pretty girl.

We lasted slightly more than two months before disaster struck.

She got fed up with my studying and I had no time for her—what free time I did have was spent sleeping or being a vegetable and doing absolutely nothing. I didn't want to spend my few hours spare with a girl I hardly knew. I told her this myself when she hadn't see me for three weeks. She exploded. In the female mind, I apparently must have her as my first priority, and I didn't. She wanted a prince, I wanted an image; she wanted a soul mate and I wanted an illusion. Neither of us got what we wanted in the end. Thankfully she moved to America later that year, saving us both the trouble of a post-break-up-situation.

What does this story have to do with why I'm sitting on the couch staring blankly at a poorly written television show? Absolutely nothing, except for the fact that it portrays the last woman to ever have an interest in a romantic relationship with me (the stalkers do… not… count…).

Misa uses me to get closer to Kira-sama. Quite a blow to my already-wounded ego, that the woman I married should want me for nothing more than a corpse. Well, I hope the bastard is proud right now, because I have to hand it to him—he is quite the genius. I'm not entirely sure about what he has against me, personally. After all, I've never done anything to him. He has a wonderful talent at picking out enemies, though. I hope he enjoys Misa more than I would have, because they deserve each other. They truly do.

But that, again, is beside the point. Our honey moon was destined to be short, anyway. I wasn't looking forward to it; in fact, I was dreading spending time alone with the She Demon.

It turns out I didn't need to be worried.

We had decided before the wedding to spend our honeymoon in the least romantic place possible—some random hotel in down-town Tokyo. Of course, when I say random, I don't mean cheap (which was my desire). Misa did not sympathize with my wish to remain a frugal bastard, and thus, we reserved the honeymoon suite in Tokyo's most extravagant hotel. Most of the expense was sacrificed to, again, her publicity, and for perhaps the first time in my life it was _I _who felt like the trophy wife. All the pictures being snapped while I was being dragged from room to room like a toy doll, out of context recordings of my voice… humiliation at its highest.

Is this what the normal people call karma? The revenge of the fates for all of my gross misdeeds? Dear god, no wonder all the common folk act so generously.

After dinner and (a rather stunted) conversation with the press, we eventually found our way to our room, and… of course, there was only one bed—because heaven forbid the press find out we got a two-bed room after just getting married—so, being the man, I was condemned to the couch whilst Misa the Priestess Queen slept in her KING-SIZED, I repeat in bold letters **King-Sized, **bed! Not that the couch isn't nice—it has a nice springy mattress compressed inside and a rather large television in front of it, with (of course) ten thousand channels and not a single thing on to watch. Even reality television has taken a down-hill slide since the Shinigami became public (…yes, apparently reality television _still _had a hill, which is, remembering the random broadcasts of Clash of the Choirs and Farmer Wants a Wife). Lately, the prime time shows have been animated movies and infomercials—at three a.m., it only gets worse.

Hence why I am writing in this Goddamn diary.

Oh, thank God. A documentary is on. My brain cells are saved.

* * *

Outside, the streetlamps glowed dimly, casting sporadic patches of light across the sidewalk. A few masked individuals walked briskly through the early spring night, flanked by neon signs advertising various alcoholic beverages. The windows were shut against the night air, and where once the streets were busy, they now looked nearly deserted and bare, like a skeleton stripped of its skin, empty bones reflected in the starless night.

Somewhere above, a solider wrote, his brown eyes downcast, staring indifferently at the scrawled words below him, his apathetic expression hidden behind a mask of tragedy. Somewhere before him stood the detective who stared onto the same dimly-lit street not so very long ago, his dark hair standing on end and his eyes roaming the horizon. Their minds are on a different level and were in very different place, but they both had no idea what it is that awaited them at the journey's end.

Detective and solider. The unmasked and the hidden. One hid behind a letter; one hide behind a cloth rag. Neither were prepared for what awaited them. Neither of them wanted to be.

* * *

"It sure is… big," said the fourteen-year-old girl warily, eyes moving around the room in a cross between awe and horror. Beside the Japanese girl stood her brother, who held a cardboard box in his arms and breathed out in what, to anyone else, would sound like exasperation.

"That is generally the definition of a mansion. Voluminous, monumental, gargantuan, an immense amount of land with a copious amount of space and bathrooms for which many purposes are unknown. She probably has a whirlpool, too…." The eighteen year-old dropped the box of ragged belongings onto the floor. Written on the cardboard in black sharpie were the words 'Yagami belongings: Yes, someone actually owns this crap'.

"Where is Misa, anyways? I thought you two were married. Aren't you supposed to be all lovey-dovey?" asked Sayu mischievously, brown eyes glinting in dark humor as her brother looked over once again, his mask concealing his dubious expression and raised eyebrow.

"Misa and I are the farthest thing from lovey-dovey. Romance is not high on our marital agenda, thank God. Where's Mother? I was under the impression she was going to help unpack." Light sifted through the box carefully taking out various crumpled objects and setting them on the floor.

"Okaa-san is working… she doesn't get off 'til five." She paused, twitching slightly, then shouted, "Hey, I thought we had more stuff than that! Where'd it all go?" Sayu surveyed the small amount of assorted lamps and mirrors in dismay.

"E-Bay, pawning, the gutter…" muttered the lean brunette, still taking objects out of the box with care and ignoring his sister's confusion.

"Charity?" asked Sayu, remembering various charities she had passed while walking along the sidewalk.

"No, Sayu, I was trying to get rid of it. Why on earth would I want it back?" The older brother smirked as he noted his sister's poorly concealed smile. Sad times when he could pull off that joke.

"So are you actually going to tell me where Misa is?" Sayu watched as Light's fingers stilled his shoulders tensed. When he finally did speak, it was in a hushed voice, hesitant and rather reticent—he was quite reluctant to reveal information.

"It's not important; Misa will be back when she gets back." He smiled thinly at the house surrounding him, "Until then, we can bask in the enjoyment of her absence to its utmost potential." Sighing in the relief that comes with completing one's task-at-hand, Light walked over to an ornate couch and jumped upon it without any outward signs of reservation. "At least her couch is nice…."

"I wonder what it's going to be like," Sayu uttered in a low voice that somewhat crossed between a mutter and a vicious jab, "when you're gone." She watched her brother close his eyes and drift into a half slumber with mild irritation, already knowing that his answer would be a creative variation on 'Not thinking about it, so stop asking me'.

"Sayu, the nice thing about the phrase 'I'll talk about that tomorrow' is that, technically, tomorrow will never come. As humans, we are constantly trapped within the present, so when we say something will be 'done tomorrow', or if we speculate the future in any way, we are indeed looking at something that will never happen. As a result, I will think about that tomorrow." After his pre-composed mini-speech, Light sighed and continued to fake-doze on the couch, ignoring Sayu's amused look of both mild confusion and dull acceptance. Slowly, though, as the silence continued, Light could practically hear the smile slipping from her face.

"You will come back, though? Someday, when all this is over, you'll be able to come back home."

"Someday."

* * *

It was two days later that the young prodigy found his way to the nearest empty bus stop. Hunching against the brisk April weather, he stood motionlessly, his eyes conveying nothing to those who passed him by. Against his leg rested a faded leather bag, filled with several pairs of clothing, toiletries, and one thin black note book.

Cars rushed past in the city's constant rush hour traffic, the clear sign of a metropolis—although, admittedly, Tokyo's new definition of 'rush hour' was several hours faster than the old. The young man did not appear to notice them any more than they noticed him as he wondered, briefly, what his wife would be doing now, wondered whether she even realized he had left. He had, after all, departed well before any sane man would have awoken, as the ratio of cars-on-the-street to insane-Shinigami-Servants-and-Kira-worshippers-in-Tokyo would attest to.

Y— Light wasn't the type of man to drag his heels into death fearing the moment of the strike. No, Light wouldn't sit and contemplate his fate within the stillness of his room any longer. He had had enough of waiting—waiting and doing nothing. Instead, he had left far earlier than expected, leaving nothing sentimental, nothing needed. If he had a choice, he would choose to meet his destiny on his own terms.

He was a man who believed in the first strike.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: Yes, all above reality television shows were actually broadcast at one point. Disturbing, isn't it? And the previous two chapters were pre-wedding thoughts; this was a more coherent mid-to-end-wedding account.  
**

**A poem about reviewing:**

**Don't you love AU**

**Where nothing makes sense to you**

**Where lives are ruined**

**And authors run out of rhymes for the word ruined**

**And slowly readers realize that this isn't a poem**

**But more of a rant where the author ran out of words**

**Dammit, why can't the co-authoress write poetry?**

**Review and hopefully that will NEVER happen again.**


	12. The Mind Enters Itself and God the Mind

**Scourge's Note: Brief moment of harsh language in the second section. Beware.**

**THE MIND ENTERS ITSELF AND GOD THE MIND**

Silence is refining every thought in his heart  
Still the fates are weaving every note that's bleeding  
As he sits there seething  
All alone in the dark  
The music dies  
But he will always hear me

_-The Dark, Trans-Siberian Orchestra_

He placed his cold fingers on his ears, blocking them from the screams ringing in distortedly perfect tune. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know what he was doing here, and he didn't know who he was in the first place.

Logic told him again and again in its low whispers that he was in a stone cell, staring across at the thirteen metal bars that blocked his way to freedom, straining up to the needlepoint of light, wincing as a single guard whistled tunelessly. It told him with an indifferent monotone that he was exactly where he thought he was; it told him that he was in a cold, dark prison where he would never escape and his own brain power would eat him alive. Cannibalism is not unheard of in dire situations.

_Lawliet_

The name was whispered through the icy air. He breathed it in as he hunched in his corner, surveying the world with heartless black eyes—eyes that saw everything and pitied nothing. They were not his eyes. They were the eyes of the faceless detective, L. They no longer belonged to him.

_Lawliet_

The name echoed through his bars, clanging loudly against the stone walls, trying to force its way past his hands so it could rattle through his ear drums. The prisoner nearly smiled behind the dull sack that served as his mask. He had found that in his timeless captivity, he could slow down enough to appreciate the irony. Lawliet was the name of the British orphan, the child prodigy turned detective. Lawliet had died long before he had ever seen a Shinigami or heard the name of Kira. The child had died the instant his path was chosen, and in his place the detective stood.

L didn't mean much to the prisoner now. It was just a letter, one among twenty-six in his native language. It hadn't always been like that—once upon a time, that letter had been the parameters of his world. L was justice, L was death, L was God. L was the last word on the criminals' mind as he condemned them to a fate worse than death. The police respected him even as they loathed him; the criminals hated him with a fierce passion; and his protégées adored him and detested him in equal measures as they clambered to take his place.

But that was before Kira began his escalation into immortality. Kira was what L could never be. Catching Kira consumed L. It destroyed him because, in the process of defeating him, L realized that he was not hunting the man—he was hunting the blood-stains he left behind. Even while sitting in a prison cell, he still held a power L could never have imagined. L was destroyed when he realized that justice didn't exist—because if justice didn't exist, then how could the detective?

And if he wasn't Lawliet, and he wasn't L, then who was the prisoner? Who was the starving insomniac left nameless and shackled by the wrath of war? Would any church bells peal for his death as they would have for the detective's? Would his body be trampled underfoot as the penniless orphan's could have been?

_Lawliet _

They did not chain his hands or his feet; they must have assumed that he had nowhere to go, that in his thin clothing he would not survive a moment without shelter. It was unsettling, disheartening, distressing—but what disturbed the prisoner most was that they were right. He shifted his gaze to his uncovered toes, wondering just how long it would be until he would experience frost bite, until his fingers and toes would turn black and fall off, one by one.

Another cry of agony sounded through the prison. The prisoner was shocked out of his reminiscing; his hands dropped from his ears. He could stand the screaming, but he couldn't listen to the silence—the silence of the screams, the silence of the bells. The torture was infrequent and often to no end; it was obvious in the way the guards would scurry about as if it were a surprise to be asked to beat a certain prisoner, the way they seemed to get their questions mixed up between blows. The dark-haired prisoner was never sure, as he had never been tortured (or had he? He can't remember...).

They captured him alive. The prisoner had assumed that they knew of L and wished to speak with him, that they would spend their time relishing in the pain they delivered as they wheedled all his knowledge out of him, leaving him broken and crippled on the stone floor. Perhaps in another war it would have been so, but here it seemed the god of wrath showed contempt for his opponents, not even deeming them worthy of death.

It was not mercy. The prisoner had never believed in mercy. It was not mercy, but the act of someone who no longer cared whether he inflicted pain on his enemies, the act of a being who, in the middle of his campaign, realized that it no longer mattered if they feared him. The result was the same.

Whether he was tortured or not, the prisoner felt his bruises; whether he was chained or not, he felt his shackles. His hands returned, shaking, to his face, and they were pale, cold in his prison. The faint lines that ran across them gave the illusion of age; the calluses gave them the illusion of experience. The prisoner's world was nothing but an illusion.

The callused hands slipped under the prisoners mask, touching his bare face, the face which he had not seen in four years (one, three, five, ten, eighteen?). He wanted to laugh as he thought of this; it was supposed to be the detective who had no face, but it was only after he died that the prophecy came true.

The prisoner could appreciate the irony.

_Lawliet _

The orphan was rotting in the streets where destiny found him; the detective died with his honor, a bullet lodged in his skull as he watched his world collapse—why was the prisoner any different? What gave him the right to sit day by day in his timeless sanctuary as the world outside burned?

Why shouldn't he join them?

The prisoner smiled as his fingers clenched the inside of his mask and his arm moved upwards. He felt as if he were waving goodbye.

_Farewell, Kira. Enjoy the ashes you tread upon, for the corpses are rotting beside you. Soon, you will have nothing to trample but dust. _

"Hey, what's he doing?"

The prisoner was far away, anticipating the forty seconds that span between life and death. The gods of death would not deny him this last parting gift.

"Oh, shit! Open the goddamn door before he kills himself!"

The mask was slipping upwards; he could feel the cold night air on his bare face as the bells swelled, pleading in their intensity. His smile widened. No, real bells would never toll for him, but that did not matter as much as it used to. The mask was slipping, his grave was calling; he was going home.

"Bastard! We can't let this one die! If he dies, we're fucked!"

The mask stopped, trapped against his skin. The guards shook the bars as they fiddled with the lock, making their way to stop him from leaving, to stop him from making full use of his one escape plan, but they were not what stopped the mask. They weren't what was stopping him.

His smile faded; his eyes widened beneath the cloth, and he began to struggle. He ripped the mask forward against the opposing force, trying to tear the cloth against his assailant.

_Lawliet _

The door opened; the guards rushed in, their voices loud as they talked over each other and curse in multiple languages. His window of freedom closed ever so softly and he could no longer see the sun. There came a blow to his head and he felt his world go dark—his head slumped and his body crashed to the floor.

Death refused the prisoner. He had seen him too many times and he was busy enough, as it were. He did not need to collect the same person thrice.

_Lawliet_

_

* * *

_

The child-god slouched upon his makeshift throne, his blue eyes piercing through the very walls of his stronghold as he contemplated the situation. Beneath the silver hair, Neal could almost make out his innocent features, formed with a child's delicate, pale skin. It was hardly a shock anymore, to realize the paradox of the Shinigami.

Nero watched as his kingdom burned, his eyes bright and nameless; he stood alone in his palace as the people cried out to him, his _blue _eyes saying nothing. _Blue eyes_.

Through the child's naïve blue eyes, the world unraveled, collapsing upon its many pillars and facets, the cracks barely visible as it fell beneath his small pale hands. Sometimes the reporter wondered if he ever bothered to place it back together, or simply left it in shambles and walked away.

All roads lead to Rome, Rome lead to Kira—and what did Kira lead to? What kind of a monster did one find in the center of the world, waiting upon his throne, a smile upon his pale lips? Who would dare to seek such a being out of the darkness?

"Nealan."

Fate, with cruel innocence, wove his thread, blue eyes watching as each strand frayed to nothing. No expression crossed his face as he cut each string away until his tapestry fell. Glorious battles woven in its surface became nothing before his omniscient blue gaze. Fate had no mercy for the fraying threads.

"Fate. Clever Nealan, you always go back to the Greeks, don't you? And to Rome, of course—the great empire that conquered the world. I am not Nero, Nealan. I do not possess his weakness for music."

It was a game. He knew it was a game, and yet he played it all the same. He played it and lost—never meet the basilisk's gaze. And yet, he would meet it all the same, paralyzed by the world of death that stared through the child's eyes. The blue fires of immortality burned bright when challenged. The reporter was a fool to play, but what choice did he have?

"I don't know what you're talking about. Weren't you worried about the light or the world's greatest detective, or something?" asked the reporter dryly, his radio voice failing to contain the bitter sarcasm that entrenched him. Distraction—it was a risk that wouldn't work. Why did he leap if he _knew _he would fall? Why couldn't he stop himself?

Pandora's Box. Hope was the last and worst of all demons. Lock the box tight, for hope would destroy the world with its lies.

"The light. How very direct. It suits him... He is, after all, a kind of light, a type of illumination for himself and for others, fascinating in the fragility of his state. One push, and he will go flying off the knife's point to his demise. All it would take is a simple push…. And yet he balances, all the same. Yes, I do believe you are right, Nealan. He is the light." The child kept his head bent, even as he stared through the sloppily-painted wall.

"And the detective—shouldn't you be worrying about him? You know he will try again." His voice trailed off as Achos stared past him at the still-blank wall, projecting his thoughts onto the white rock.

"He is a liar, Nealan. He acts as though he will try again. You would expect him to try again, but he will not. It is not in his nature. He has fallen once—why climb to the rafters, only to watch, dismayed, as the rope unravels again? His pride is far more precious than his life. He failed to commit suicide, Nealan—therefore, he failed at death; therefore, he cannot die. He knows that, and I know that, but he lies all the same."

Distraction and hope were just as demonic as the Shinigami himself, but he played all the same and moved to his next trick—to ignore him, to shut him out. The blue eyes couldn't see him if he couldn't see them. There were no such things as one-way mirrors. Hide and seek—close his eyes and count to five.

_One. _

"Childish. You humans are so _childish_. Your pride runs you like a slave driver, painting scars along you back with scarlet water-color—the shades bleed together with the color of your skin…. You poor, childish creatures"

_Two._

"It slips my mind, sometimes, the difference between us. You find me repulsive because I wear your face as you wear your mask. I can see it when you hunch your shoulders and stare at the television set, daring yourself to tell me how much you hate me. I knew how much you loathed me the moment I took what was rightfully mine, and that has _never_ left my mind. But sometimes the distinction fades—not a great deal, but enough to make a difference."

_Three_.

Months ago, six was his number; he could now never make it past three. Those childish eyes found him every time, and they smiled as if it were all a game—because it was a game, and death was laughing each time Neal lost. His sanity fluttered madly about inside his head—his poor, mad sanity, aching to fly away. His caged nightingale….

_Pro di immortales. _The child's eyes saw all. His mind encompassed all like a pair of wings that surrounded the earth tenderly—white, ragged wings, falling over Nealan's own mind, shutting the world out from view. Hatred, love… was that what Nealan felt when he lost his mind to sleepless nights and sheer terror. Did he really have the right to label the feeling?

_Why?_

Why should he label it? This monster that wore a face as a mask, whose eyes betrayed him every time—this monster who acted as a chil)d and a god. The child-like emperor laughing upon his bone-white throne, blue eyes aflame, dancing beneath the moonlight.

_You stole my face. You stole my people's faces, and you laugh at us for it. How dare you? How dare you pretend you are human, you monster? What kind of demon waits behind that human façade of yours, demon? Winged child of death? _

The basilisk's gaze paralyzed him once more; the child's hands, icy and cool, reached towards his Notebook, the stone on which he recorded his epitaphs. The scribe's hands, bandaged with strips of graying cloth that seemed to unravel beneath Nealan's gaze, gathered the Book of the Dead into his arms. The blue in his eyes showed nothing of humanity—only a great fire that burned in shades invisible to humans.

Kira wore not the face of Death, but of a pale child with brilliant blue eyes.


	13. Mine Own Prison

**MINE OWN PRISON**

And I find it kind of funny  
I find it kind of sad  
The dreams in which I'm dying  
Are the best I've ever had

-_Mad World, Tears for Fears_

_Darkness swarms the room, covering any source of light that may have once existed. Like a great sea, it swells and falls with the unseen tides—it is a storm of shadows pushing against the walls of its cage, aching to break free. _

_In the midst of the waves sits a fallen angel clothed in white, entirely devoid of color and darkness—a pinpoint of light. The figure watches a single checkered board that is laid out in front of him, eyes focused on the black king before him. _

_Check. _

_One move and the king is captured, white will be victorious, the game will end. And yet the pale hand pauses, and suddenly the advancing piece moves, slides to the left, away from the imminent victory set before it. The bandaged had disappears from the white army; the winged creature's eyes settle instead on the starkness of a black statuette. _

_Across from him rests empty space, devoid of conscious thoughts or ponderings. There is only one player in the chess game, only one mind to create the strategy, to engage in the battle of wills. _

_As the game goes on, it becomes increasingly obvious the child's intent. Neither white nor black move closer to winning their battles, and although pawns are removed and knights are captured, no side is clearly dominant. _

_Stalemate. _

_Neither side feels the cool, pale fingers urging them along or drawing them back—each sees only the other enemy. They cannot feel the overhead view of the chessboard; they do not see through the eyes of the gods. _

_You find yourself walking through a hallway, marveling at the ceiling's gothic arches and the lengthy candelabras protruding from the wall. All around, you can hear muttered chants in what sounds like Latin—each one wraps itself around you, singing through your ears, and although you have never learned the language, you know what is being said. And yet, you do not listen, for you find yourself stopping instead to stare at the woman in the front of the hall who stands at a polished white podium. _

Confiteor Deo Omnipotenti

_Her white robe conceals her from her faceless followers, who are lost in prayer. But you see her—you recognize her. You know that without the hooded robe, you would see her dyed blonde hair and her false blue eyes. But now you observe only the priestess, goddess of Kira; there is no model or actress hiding behind these robes. _

Beatae Mariae semper Virgini

_She calls out to her people, but you cannot understand her—the syllables rush by in a storm of passion and each one sprints away from your outreaching fingers. You are not meant to hear these words. _

Beato Michaeli archangelo

_In the distance, you can hear the tolling of a single church bell, and in the priestess' hand you can see a single white rose. You feel the wind shudder in from behind you; you turn with the mass of people to see a small girl of perhaps thirteen or fourteen. She hangs near the edge of the great doorway, staring with wide brown eyes at the mass of people, and though her eyes move rapidly, with careful attention, you know she is not looking for you. _

Sanctis apostolis omnibus sanctis

_You call out to her even though you know she cannot hear. Even in dreams, her face is hidden to you—hidden behind the mask that adorns every face within the white temple. She looks afraid—guilty, perhaps—and yet she strides forward with the march of those who are not afraid to die. She learned that walk from you. _

Et tibit Pater

_And as she moves towards the priestess, you see the change—you see her loose street clothing turn from that of the outside to new robes, different robes—the high-collared constraints of a Shinigami Servant Sacrifice, not of the Kira worshippers around her. Her eyes lose their wariness and take on instead the apathetic glaze of those that surround her. She is not your sister anymore. _

Quia peccavi nimis

_In her hands she holds a lit candle, which burns slowly, endlessly, dancing as her walk speeds up and the flame grows. You cannot feel her even as she walks through you, and you let her pass on. You don't remember the words to make her stop. _

Cogitatione

_Your eyes turn past her again to the smiling priestess at the front of the room. Her white robe is now colored by the stained glass windows set behind her—the room is dyed red by the sun's fading light. The white rose drips like wax onto the floor and from the speaker's hand flows a trail of blood. _

Verbo et opere

_The girl reaches the stand, her expressionless mask revealing all that you wanted to see. You move, you run, you scream—but it means nothing. They do not hear you, they cannot see you, and they will not heed you. _

Mea culpa

_Even as she stands there, the candle still burns brightly as white wax falls to the floor and joins the red drops of blood. The priestess once more addresses her captive audience, and still you hear no words—you don't need to hear them._

Mea maxima culpa

_Her voice rises through the vaulted ceiling, illuminating the painted walls with the flowing scripts of ancient, nonexistent languages. You see then the figures you missed, the angels of death smiling down upon their children with blood dripping from their fingers like rain. _

Mea culpa

_Their eyes stare down at you, piercing your soul—they know who you are and always have been. They know you cannot stop them. _

Mea culpa

_You feel the peak of her words before the mass hears them; you know the end is nigh, and you watch, helpless, hopeless, as the blue-eyed angel gazes through the ceiling, towards the god she believes is waiting for her. Her faith rushes towards you, drowning you in its sheer blindness. _

Mea maxima culpa

_The tolling of the bell ceases; the last note dies away. The room grows dark and the faceless mass of people disappears into nothingness from whence they came. Only two figures remain in your view._

Kyrie Eleison

_The mask falls. The girl tumbles into oblivion, her features lost to you. The mask contains nothing of the living being you once knew. _

Kyrie Eleison

_The priestess turns her blue eyes towards you. She sees the darkness surrounding her and you see an empty sadness there: The weariness of one who has experienced so much more horror than is righteous for one so young. From her hand falls a single white rose. _

Kyrie Eleison

_It is the rose you hold in your hands, its white petals opening towards you. Your fingers clench and the rose shatters, cutting your hands as its shards explode outwards. You close your eyes and see no more. _

_

* * *

_

"I want out."

The commander blinked furiously behind his desk, staring back at Light Yagami with an expression that was far too incredulous for Light's taste. That is, what Light could see of the expression, which was only the drop of the mouth and the slight widening of the eyes. It was, though, all he needed to know that the man's eyebrows had risen far beyond their usual resting point.

The man himself hardly fit the role of military leader—he was a small, paunchy man with a rounded face lined by age. His beady eyes would bulge out whenever something struck his temper, and at that particular moment, his hands were twitching against the wood of his desk. On this desk sat various sheets paper-work listing out aliases of soldiers, timelines of the training phases (all rushed due to lack of money, lack of properly certified instructors, and rather confused orders from the top of the command structure), and, more importantly to Light, a list of naturally-talented soldiers to be transferred into Special-Ops training.

Light wanted on to be on that list.

"How did you get in here?" The lieutenant harrumphed and glanced back at the closed door, no doubt wishing it had been properly locked.

"You forgot to lock the door; I decided to drop in for a chat." Light waited for the older man behind the desk to swallow his self-directed rage and ask the next obvious question.

"Well, what do you want now, Ferre?" the old man pretended to look at the paper-work lying on his desk, all the while ignoring Light's stare and previous statement.

"I have never kept my dislike of this place a secret—why should it surprise you that I wish to leave?" Light folded his hands neatly on his lap, conveying absolute serenity through his gaze.

"Get out of my office, Ferre. I don't have time for you or your ludicrous bargains, and I don't care what you dish out; you are stuck here, just like the rest of us."

That, of course, was precisely the problem that was causing Light a great deal of distress.

"Sir, I'm afraid my wandering eye has alighted upon your list of special operation troops. I couldn't help but remember my perfect training record, and felt it best to remind you of said record."

The commander sighed. Light knew that he was wishing this scene was less familiar to him, that he could have been outraged at the audacity of such a request from a mere soldier. He wished it, but unfortunately for both of them, it simply wasn't true. In some other military, Light may have been crossing a fine line, but in the Godforsaken training camps of the Coalition, there was no such risk.

"You think that you can join an A Team at nineteen, with only three months of training and be taken seriously? You aren't as wonderful as you like to think you are, Ferre. You aren't the god of military action. Yes, you may be brilliant, but you are also an arrogant son of a bitch. No. Get out of my office." The man's attention strayed from Light, back to his papers, and he sighed and made a mental note to force whoever was filling out the forms to improve their handwriting. It was only when the silence continued to stretch did the commander realize that the boy was still sitting in the chair with a rather smug expression on his face.

"Sir, I think you'll agree that, three months or no, my continued presence at this camp will teach me nothing. I learned more about military tactics from my fifth grade algebra teacher than from your so-called Coalition training camp." Light surveyed the older man confidently—it was nearly impossible to overstep a line in this situation. The world had so many lines that everything was one big mass.

"Oh, well, forgive us, Ferre, if the army isn't good enough for you. Get out of this room or I will throw you out. You have no respect for authority, you have no respect for tradition, and you have no honor. _That_ is why you will be stuck here until they send you out to die in the trenches." The old man's words clinked against the inner workings of Light's recently under-exercised mind. He stood from his seat and walked back towards the door, brusquely nodding to the commander, then stepping out once again.

Of course, the commander realized with a pang of regret, this would most definitely not be the end of that particular discussion. The arrogant Lucis Ferre was too intelligent to have thought his first assault would succeed—oh, no. Their discussion had been mere _reconnaissance_. The lieutenant knew for a fact that the young man whose real name was Light Yagami would give him absolute hell until his demands were met. The lieutenant who, after only six months of military experience, really had no right to have command of anything, let his eyes stray down to the blank sheet of paper where the names of his most talented men were to be written.

He'd have hell to pay for this.

* * *

Strangely enough, all people—especially the soldiers with which he shared an uneasy home—thought that Light was just as eerily brilliant as he made himself out to be. Perfection was something, they had been told, that simply didn't exist. No matter how much you strained for it and no matter how much you desired it, there would always be room for improvement.

That philosophy was greatly challenged when they came mask to mask with Light Yagami. Despite his distaste for all things human, the young man oozed perfection—it was in his smile, it was in his self-assured gestures, it was in his eyes. And yet, with that perfection came the arrogance of a god. Light Yagami believed himself to be better than everyone whose acquaintance he would ever have the displeasure of making.

He would sneer in contempt as he looked at the other soldiers and waited for them to spout some bit of useless information. His eyes would glaze over when asked about his day and what his thoughts were on training exercises; he would look around slowly, then make a reference to an obscure novel they had most certainly never heard of (and that, quite possibly, did not exist).

It was in this way that Lucis Ferre, the alias Light Yagami had pulled from his mind within a single second of being informed by the lieutenant that false names were a requirement, became one of the most unpopular residents of the Coalition's Japanese training camp. They wondered if he realized that not a single person in that camp would be able to resist him if he didn't believe he was the greatest gift to the human race since the invention of farming. They wondered if he knew that behind their contempt and mutual dislike, they admired him—if only for his iron will and sheer genius.

They looked at his bitter mindset and wondered if he had ever shown a trace of optimism or happiness at the fate of the world, and wondered whether that gleam of hatred had always been in his eyes, and asked themselves whether or not there was any point in time at which he had ever been truly happy.

The truth was that they had no idea what floated through Light Yagami's head—they only saw what they believed ought to be there. That was their first mistake.


	14. Do Not Stop For Death

**DO NOT STOP FOR DEATH**

_I've seen the future, I can't afford it__  
__Tell me the truth, sir, someone just bought it__  
__Say, Mr. whispers! Here come the click of dice__  
__Roulette and blackjacks - gonna build us a paradise__  
__Larger than life and twice as ugly__  
__If we have to live there, you'll have to drug me_

- How to be a billionaire, ABC

Sayu first heard about the Shinigami Servants from her older brother. It was a dull grey morning, soon after their father had left for war. She could still smell his black coffee, still could see him getting ready for work in her mind. Back when her father had a job—before the NPA recruited him for a war, before the words 'police man' and 'detective' meant soldier. She missed those mornings—she still missed them.

She had found Light staring blankly at a newspaper, looking far older than sixteen. He had looked too old for a fifteen year old, as well. He had started acting, talking, looking like an old man. But sometimes she forgot, and that morning was no exception.

"Who are the Shinigami Servants?" she asked her brother, reclaiming his attention from the reports of dead journalists, angry riots, and the eternal war. She watched as the newspaper lowered with a sigh, revealing his masked face. She was new to the masks; even though it had been two years, she was still so unused to the masks. Sometimes, she wanted to ask him if he would take it off.

"A cult," he answered shortly before looking at his watch and muttering under his breath. He was sixteen—it was the year he had tried to become perfect. He had more jobs than usual; it wasn't until later that Sayu realized it was the stress. Deep down, she thought he already knew their father wasn't coming back.

Light didn't believe in happy endings—he thought they ruined the story.

"Like what kind of a cult?" asked Sayu, her whining voice causing Light's angry muttering to increase. Soon would come the swearing; he always swore in the mornings, right after he had the cup of coffee.

"The kind full of idiots." He paused, still clutching the mug exclaiming 'Number One Dad' in one hand. "Oh, wait. That applies to all cults." He moved towards the coffee maker, trying to get his fill before their mother once again warned him of the dangers of caffeine overdose.

"That's really descriptive, Light. Aren't you supposed to be telling me these things? What if _I _joined the Shinigami Servants? It would be all your fault because you didn't tell me." She smiled and giggled as he reached for the newspaper to swat her on the head with the headline exclaiming the 'hopeful' end of the war.

"If you joined the Shinigami Servants, I might have to kill you," he threatened, his brown eyes glinting with the thought of murder. It was in moments like these that Sayu realized Light never had a chance to grow up.

Underneath the swearing and pessimism, he was still the fifteen-year-old boy dressed in clothes to big for him with shoelaces dragging behind as he walked—the fifteen-year-old-boy whose father left for war.

"You couldn't kill me—I'm your sister." Underneath all those harsh words, Light really was a softie; people just couldn't see it. Light had always been good at wearing masks.

"You want to bet? As long as I dispose of the witnesses and evidence properly, I don't see why not." He smiled. A good start to the day—no swearing, no anger. His bosses would be happy as long as Light stayed happy.

It was one of the last good days Sayu remembered.

* * *

"What are you going to tell Light? When he finds out where all the money goes?" asked Sayu, confronting the blonde priestess in the doorway. Misa paused to look up at Sayu before moving past her.

"Do you know that we're broke? You gave everything—every little bit of money we had! Light's going to kill you when he finds out what you've done to us. Do you know that?" Sayu could hardly suppress the urge to hit her sister-in-law, the desire to send her flailing to the floor. She'd slapped her before, when she found the bills unpaid, when she discovered how deep in debt they were.

"I had no choice," said Misa slowly, her voice hesitant, too unused to make much of a sound. The depression had caused the blonde to decay; there were no more flashy outfits, no more interviews. All she did was shut herself up in a church and pray—pray and donate.

"You had no choice? Really, Misa. Do you think I'm stupid? My mother can't go to the doctor's because of you; my mother is sick because of you. My mother is old and could die because of you." Sayu turned as she watched Misa make her way through the dirty, collapsing apartment room—just where they used to be, just what Light had worked so hard to get them out of.

Light had tried to defeat the poverty trap. He'd failed.

"If Light were here…!" shouted Sayu, but the threat went unfinished because Misa whipped her head around and cut off her sentence with a sneer.

"Light isn't here. That is the whole problem—your precious brother isn't here. He hasn't been here for months and he isn't going to be here until they bring him back in a coffin. So don't go telling Misa what Light would do _if _he was here, because he's not." Misa made her way past the furniture they had left, the furniture she hadn't sold, and into what she called her room.

But she was right. Light wasn't there; he wasn't going to help her cheat on a test, this time. This time, it was only Sayu, and no matter how many times she asked, 'What Would Light Do?' he never answered.

The shock had gotten her mother sick. After all, how was she to know that Sayu had to organize a move to a cheap apartment? That, she had learned from Light. She had watched every time he tried to move somewhere better, to some place with neighbors that wouldn't try to kill her, to some place where she couldn't smell the crack through the walls. Sayu didn't want to go back there, those places, those rooms, but Misa had left her no choice.

Misa had forgotten to pay the bills, all of the bills. Every day, Sayu would find her locked in her room, clutching a small golden key and repeating the words, "May God have mercy on my soul."

Sayu thought it was depression. She'd seen it before—they had told her that her brother was depressed. But he hadn't become a living doll. He had become worse, yes, grown horrid and cantankerous and downright nasty—he had become the light of the fire that flares brightest before fading away into smoke and ash. Even in desperation, he would not become like Misa; he would still burn—burn away into nothing, burn out the eyes of anyone who dared to look. Light was a fighter; Misa was not. Depression broke Misa like a toy and left her hidden in the corner, and Sayu was left to find her.

She didn't talk, she didn't eat, she didn't move. But most important of all, she didn't pay bills and she gave, gave everything away, to Kira. To the God that had never answered anyone's prayers—especially not Sayu's.

Misa was right. Light couldn't help her.

She stepped outside the apartment so she didn't have to listen to that damn repeated phrase, so she wouldn't have to see Misa sitting in her corner, rocking back and forth, doing nothing but praying.

That's when the pamphlet caught her eye. 'Shinigami Servants,' it said in bold lettering. Her brother had hated the Shinigami Servants because they were afraid—afraid of the gods, afraid of the humans fighting them. But Light had failed to mention that it paid to be afraid. They paid you money to be afraid of the Shinigami.

And even though Sayu didn't admit it, she was afraid of Death Gods.

If Light couldn't help her, she'd have to learn to help herself.

* * *

Months passed, and she knew how.

* * *

The church frightened her sometimes. The people wept in there, their masks stained with tears. They killed people in there—sacrificed them to appease the thirst of the Death Gods.

_If we sacrifice one, we will save the whole. Humans can survive without one person. Your life is not so important as humanity's survival. _

If they gave themselves up, there would still be hope. Still, sometimes, even as Sayu stood among the pews, watching the poor homeless people die one by one… sometimes, she wondered what she was doing there. Money, desperation, spite? Was it worth killing for?

Sometimes, the sacrifices screamed. They said they weren't ready, that they didn't really want to die. The beggars, they were called. The ones who tried to leave once they had decided, once they had decided to become a sacrifice to appease the thirst of the gods. And there was something reassuring in their pleas—they did not want to martyr themselves for some other's fool's life, did not want their hearts to burst, did not want to die for humanity, did not want to save humanity. They were human, they were selfish, they were flawed.

Sometimes, she thought she saw Misa being dragged in, saying nothing, looking at nothing, eyes glazed as they read her rights as a sacrifice—as they lied and told her that she'd go to heaven, that she'd have riches beyond her wildest dreams, that all her wishes would come true.

The worst were the ones who said nothing at all. The self-righteous triumph in their eyes, the conviction that they would be a savior, an honored redeemer—they were the ones that believed the lies, devoured them as a starving man laps wine (drinks blood) from the streets. They would say nothing; not a tear would fall from their eyes as they looked skyward, just waiting for that killing blow.

And somehow, they always seemed to be looking at her when their masks were ripped off. Their dark brown eyes found her face as they whispered one final word, one final sentence.

Please, save me.

She couldn't save them—her mother, they needed the money. She had to hide the money she earned so Misa wouldn't find it, wouldn't give it away like she had everything else. She was scared, she was young; it was horrible. But that's why she was there—because they were scared, too.

The worst was when they made her move the corpse of the old, dead man—when they made her carry it out to the dumpster where they threw him away, left him to rot in a landfill. It wasn't murder, anymore. It was sacrifice. The police didn't care. The police ignored the Shinigami Servants, just as they ignored everything else—just as they ignored the stench of decaying bodies on trash days, they ignored the white-robed Shinigami Servants as they sauntered down the street in search of new victims.

It wasn't murder if they sacrificed themselves, and people were far too busy to care about suicide. Assisted or not.

Sometimes, Sayu wished it had been her drafted in the war, so she didn't have to carry the pale, heavy corpses—so she didn't have to look at another dead man's eyes. But at the end of the day, with her wallet nicely filled and her mother's medicine in her pocket, she didn't have the heart to lie and say she regretted it.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: Well. There's that. Things are starting to pick up, now. Mm. It'd be interesting to hear what you readers are thinking-your speculations on what will happen next, what has happened... Ideas are what fuel writing, and it'd be wonderful to hear your opinion of ours-not so much the writing itself, as your opinion on the things that the characters are saying, on their actions, on why they do it... It's worth our time, if you feel like it's worth yours. :) If you feel up to dropping a word or two on some subject matter or another, it'd be awesome.**


	15. One Cigarette to Two Men

**Scourge's Note: First of all, thanks to all of you who've stuck with this. You're epic, 'n whatnot. **

**Next up, we have the explanation of the... not-English lyrics we're using here. The below happens to be the German version of the hide and seek rhyme, which is far cooler than the American version. Also, this song is more epic than America. Neither of us being able to speak German, and internet translators being even less capable than us, we decided to keep the German on the page rather than attempt to decipher expressions which clearly don't translate directly into English (idiomatic expressions are the main issue-"Ready or not, here I come" in English corresponds to the German "Eyes open, I'm coming"). Because unlike some people, we don't assume we know how to speak a language by listening to a few songs or watching a few movies. Anime fans who attempt to speak Japanese after overdosing on anime, this would be you.  
**

* * *

**ONE CIGARETTE TO TWO MEN**

Eins, zwei, drei, vier Eckstein  
(one, two, three, four, cornerstone)  
Alles muss versteckt sein  
(all must be hidden)  
Eins, zwei, drei, vier, funf, sechs, sieben, acht, neun, zehn  
(one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten!)  
Augen auf, ich komme!  
(Eyes open, I'm coming)  
Zeig dich nicht  
(Hide yourselves!)

_-Augen Auf!, Oomph!_

Mello hated the meetings with Near for many reasons, but the one that seemed the most significant was the fact that they were with _Near, _of all people—arrogant, petulant, childish Near who believed himself the most intelligent being in the universe. Mello kept the urge to remind him of their former rivalry to himself; there would be time for petty fights later.

"Mello, I presume playing soldier was enjoyable?" Near hardly even bothered looking at Mello as he said this, smiling with the insult. Well screw Near. Mello would prefer playing soldier to another fruitless meeting with Mr. Genius himself.

"Yeah, why the hell not." Mello rubbed his face, ignoring the way the short little bastard grated on his nerves—especially when he lacked sleep. Next would come some jibe about how he was helping the enemy more than he was helping his own side, and then another about how he still hadn't assassinated Kira even after all the time he had spent trying.

That was why Mello hated Near. Why did he have to be so smug about failure? What did he think he was doing? After all, if anyone was failing, Near was—at least Mello had found a way of doing something, even if it had gotten him nowhere in the end. Mello at least could say he did something.

Even if something was killing men whose cause he supported, even if something meant sacrificing men who never asked to be in a war, even if something meant being a hero to the people he loathed. At least it was something—better than anything Near had come up with since they began anyway. Better than waiting for Nealan Adessi to come to them. Mello wanted to be the one to strike first, not the other way around.

"Ah, so you do enjoy killing off your own country-men. I thought so."

No, war demanded he kill his own country-men and be praised for it later. Near had never understood the wrath of war; he never would, even as he sat there waiting for something to happen, for something to change.

"Well what the hell have you been doing? How far have you gotten?"

That shut the prick up. Mello's companion said nothing, curling a strand of white hair with one finger looking as if he were in deep thought. Or at least, pretending to look as if he were thinking—in the end, it was Mello who did all the goddamn work. Mello was the one shooting the allies to bits, Mello was the one risking his ass out in the battlefield while Near did his precious waiting.

"No one cleans his office, no one touches his apartments; the man lives like a ghost. No one goes in his offices and no one comes out, but the staff always hears voices, nonexistent. He speaks to the mob and yet he speaks to no one—no one sees him, no one advises him… he is a phantom." Even without the mask Near had been expressionless—the plaster only aided his mask-like appearance, taking the guise of a wide-eyed ghost.

A ghost, yes, they all were ghosts. Nealan Adessi, Near, Kira… the world was filled with the pale specters of humanity. Near who silently plotted the end of a quickly rising empire, Nealan Adessi who preached to thousands—a boy in white who spoke far too little and the man who spoke far too often for the world's liking. They had all turned into ghosts.

Show them their reflection in the mirror and they would see nothing but a mask, a white mask and raven's black eyes, so out of place in a child's body. The dead who could do no more than watch their world turn to ashes—ghosts of the living haunting the blood-washed streets, wearing faded white pajamas.

"He has to see one of us, eventually. We'll get him, Near, we'll end this bastard." Even if they had to kill themselves, even if their world fell apart, even if they were reduced to ashes, they would see the end of Nealan Adessi and his taskmaster. They had no choice; their transparent fingers had the strength left for only one shot—why waste it?

"Yes," the boy said absently, scratching his mouth awkwardly with a thumb. Mello forgot how old he was now—he looked no more than twelve, but then, it was hard to tell. And he had never paid too much attention; the world had been cruel, had aged them too fast. The collapse of Wammy's had done more than remove them of their home. "Good always wins—wasn't that the idea?"

"Maybe, can't remember right now. I have to go. Countrymen to kill. You get the idea." Mello stood, dusting off the uniform he wore so proudly—cursing himself for it, traitor, spy. What side did he truly shoot for?

As he walked away he swore he heard Near make a statement, but didn't bother responding. Mello understood the need for rhetorical questions.

"It can't have been all that important, if neither of us can remember."

* * *

"You humans have an abnormal obsession with good and evil—do you know that, Nealan?" The child-god perched upon his throne like the winter snowfall that had disappeared from the land, covering his desk with his ethereal presence, too white to belong to the world the reporter had been born in.

"Even now—what is Kira but justice? Justice is fairness, the way that goodness prevails over evil. What exactly are we prevailing over, I wonder? Rape, pillaging, death, chaos are spread by our hands, and they call it good merely because it is we who cause such destruction. So tell me, Nealan, has good conquered evil? Have we truly accomplished anything for your fickle race by playing our hands at god? Good always wins, yes, and is this goodness, Nealan? Death, misery, innocents slaughtered…."

Idiots, someone would have to be an idiot to challenge the god of death, the god of human suffering, justice. Only a fool would flaunt their plans and ideas with such self-righteousness in front of the child-god, of all creatures—the blue-eyed god of death who tried his hand at being fate, the king of death who didn't believe in mercy. What kind of a moron would try his hand at fooling death himself?

"They think you're the evil one." Nealan watched the shinigami frown and then resume his monologue as if he had never been interrupted, choosing to ignore Neal rather than acknowledge him. It was easier for both of them than bickering senselessly. And Neal much preferred it.

"And what have they been doing, their people? I am not the one who feeds the slaughterhouses. They should learn their place. I have tolerated them for years because they are capable of nothing; my patience is wearing thin with your people, your people who believe in nothing and everything. Your people who call me god and devil, fallen angel and savior of your race—why must I be categorized by your people, who cannot decide my nature? God of death has nothing to do with divinity. We care nothing for your people—you are a fuel supply, nothing more. Do you understand, Nealan?"

Neal understood the moment he found the Death Note, the one the police investigators hadn't seen, the one buried in a shattered pot, beneath piles of dirt and rotting flowers. Oh, yes, somewhere in his greedy soul, Nealan had understood that he was nothing more than a string of numbers fed to a monster with a pen. Yes, somehow, he had known even then. The rest of the world simply hadn't believed it yet—they believed in boogey men, in demons, in Kira, in shinigami, but they would not believe in their own insignificance.

And perhaps that was why he hated the demon-child's face, perhaps that was the reason he loathed the sight of the blue-eyed death god. Because it was a reminder of what Neal had told himself thousands of times, and yet never truly believed. How could he believe in something so horrific, so deadly?

He'd seen the death of thousands of children, his orphans left to a world of rotting corpses. He had never planned to make history in so dramatic a fashion. Monster, the world cried when they saw his name. They wanted him dead, and Neal wasn't sure he had the heart to disagree with them. But then if he took the gun to his head, if he hung his neck with a festive bow, if he said his final goodbye to the child angel—one last look into those haunting blue eyes—he would be just another corpse. And that might be worse than the guilt, worse than the dead bodies he created, worse than the utopia he didn't mean to start, worse than the first few seconds of the documentary that sent the world into chaos.

"How long before they place a bomb in my office?" Neal felt the need to get to the point—after all, that was what they were supposed to be talking about. The apprentices, what to do about the useless apprentices who were in far too deep for comfort and yet could not see their own folly. What to do with children who still believed they could save the world. Neal wanted to dare them to try.

"A few weeks, at most. The blonde one is getting impatient. I would not be surprised if he tries to snipe you."

Why was Neal not horrified by the prospect of his own demise? Too many years being manipulated by a death god, he supposed, too many years pretending to be a prophet. Too many years of nightmares, visions of truth and illusion sent by the child himself. Too many years in general.

He did not dare ask about the other one, though the second apprentice was on both of their minds. Perched upon Neal's desk, the demon child toyed with a pencil in one pale, bandaged hand, his blue eyes staring beyond the walls and into the labyrinth of thought, his very presence exuding the unearthly cold that had become familiar to the reporter. (It was only in the midst of the night, when he still dreamed of the world he hadn't created, that the cold was most unbearable—when he did not hear the screams of children eaten alive by starving gods of death.)

"Poor Nealan, sentimental, fickle, human Nealan, plagued by the guilt of the world _he_ created—remember, it is you with the artist's hands, not I. You created your world, you painted the canvas. Content yourself with their cries, with their suffering, with their hatred. There was once a time when you thanked me for that notebook in your hands; there was once a time when you thanked me for your good fortune, calling me god. Be content, fickle, inconstant human."

He remembered those days, the days he thought he was grateful for the Notebook. They ended swiftly. Those blue eyes had never let him rest in his greed and power, for they were far too entertained by his torment than by his gluttony. The child-god would much rather show the reporter the world he had created than let him be content in his arrogance. Be content, he said but he did not truly mean it. Irony, the demon lived for the irony, and he needed an audience for his play.

Poor, unfortunate, children—two boys who had no idea what they were getting into. Neal didn't have the time to pity them, but he supposed it was worth mentioning. They had not been born lucky.


	16. By the Window

**BY THE WINDOW**

'Cause you're wasted now and you're getting on down at the disco  
You're wasted now and you think you should leave  
(but you don't go)  
You're wasted now and you're just a bit sore  
(but you disco)  
You're wasted now and you think there was a point  
(but you don't know)

-_Disco, Crossfade_

The days before the war were vague for Mello, shown through fragments of conversations, desires that still plagued his sleeping hours and (of course) his current predicament. Near never mentioned Wammy's—or if he did, it was very briefly. Near was locked into the present, and sometimes, Mello wished he were, as well. Near, with his dark eyes focused on revenge for an act he hardly remembered, his mind white as the puzzles he completed so fast, no hint of emotion in his work—sheer logic.

Sitting in his bunk, thinking back on the childhood that no one seemed to care about, he would remember L—the name, the ambition, the man. Very little about the actual man. L was a mask, a figurehead; to Mello, it had been more than a letter, but hardly a man. Second place, second best—always he had been second. (Well, once the war started he had stopped being _second;_ he had stopped being a place at all.) L was god, L was justice… L was not a man. Years later, even as he mused, Mello still did not see L as a man. L was an idea, L was his future and his past—how could he have called it human?

Mello was ten when he first spoke with L; he didn't care how old Near was, but eight sounded vaguely correct. Seated in Roger's office, they had squirmed beneath the webcam and the gothic letter, their eyes riveted on the screen in worship. The top two heirs to L's title, the next in line for the throne—and finally, after all those years of work, they were greeting their mentor. Or so they had thought.

It was a computerized voice that spoke—and even then, its synthetic words managed to sound bored, as if it had better things to do than talk to a pair of spoiled children. "Congratulations… Mello and Near, you two are by far the best candidates for the title L."

The speech sounded forced, as if it were written on note cards and presented by a very bad speaker. Mello's hopes deflated. To this man behind the screen he was nothing more than a number, a test score, an IQ number; he was nothing but a pile of numbers to the man behind the screen. Near's eyes focused on his puzzle, refusing to acknowledge the webcam—just as it refused to acknowledge them.

L, their fickle and uncaring god. That was how Mello remembered him, angry and bleeding in his bunk, trapped in a war he had never imagined with a childhood he hadn't deserved. Because what kind of a childhood labels a child as a number? Second, always second. Mello felt that if a shinigami I were to kill him, it would not write down the name Mihael, or Mello; it would write down Second. Second place, second best, second done, second in line—his life was filled with a string of seconds.

"Do you have any questions?" asked the computerized voice (the sigh unheard by the two heirs) in a dull tone. At the time, he did nothing; he did not shout, or raise a single question, he was so in worship of the letter. It was only after the war, that it occurred to him, what he could have said.

What kind of a man raised children to be numbers, staking out their position as heir to a title none of them ever inherited? What kind of a monster was so cruel to create deductive machines instead of human beings? Because Near was Wammy's greatest success through and through, logical and precise, far removed from anything resembling human emotion. Yes, if Wammy's had succeeded in one thing, it had been in creating Near.

That was why Mello pitied Near, the first heir, setting his puzzle pieces into place one by one, each one colorless as his own soul. Because while Mello would never be first, as Near was, he would never be the ghost—because in their god's ironic sense of humor, he wanted nothing less than to be succeeded by a phantom.

Pale and transparent, Near played his role better than Mello could ever have imagined. Mello was never very talented at finishing those blank puzzles.

* * *

There once was a god who became a man, who became a prisoner, who became a thought. _Cogito ergo sum. _I think, therefore I am. The thought tried unsuccessfully to remember who said it, but contented itself in the thought nonetheless. There was something comforting in the idea of reality, however fickle it seemed to the thought; however useless it appeared, it helped against the dark walls and the cold nights. Existence, reality—those words kept the thought alive, fed it their false hopes, fanned its flame so that the embers did not die.

The thought saw the world's midnight eyes resting behind a mask of cloth—objects of reality, the thought pondered as it waited in chains. It was a tapestry that the thought saw, one complex in its threads, one beautiful even in the way it flowed in patterns (the cold, the dark, the night, the screams, the pain, the suffering, the hope, the anger, the life…) leaving it to follow their trails into the nothingness that consumed it. The thought existed, but in the sense that it doubted its own existence. It lived only in a plane of doubt—therefore, it had a much better view of the pattern reality made in its desperate attempts to be real.

The chains rattled, the night wind breathed, and the thought imagined itself smiling—laughing, even. The pain, the humiliation, the suffering, yes, reality was so very interesting to watch. Weaving in and out, (red, black, white…) cutting into the thought's fingers with the cold, watching the world turn black with night and fear. Who wove the tapestry, the thought wondered as it shook in its chains? Whose hands cut the thread, whose needle dipped in and out of the fabric with ease?

But the thought existed only in a thought, and did not bother itself with such flights of fancy. What did it matter whose hands controlled its fate? What did it matter what turn reality took? The thought was still a thought. The essence remained the same, the doubt still existed. The pattern wove itself through all matters of doubt; why should the thought move for it? Why should it search for the creator of such complexity?

The thought was a thought that had once been a prisoner, that had once been a man, that had once been a god. A thought, and nothing more.

* * *

Sayu dated her first and last boyfriend when she was only thirteen years old. The word 'boyfriend,' of course, was stretching things; they hadn't even kissed. The entirety of their relationship consisted of walking down the hallways, holding hands and attempting to be romantic.

Unfortunately, the word 'romantic' held little value when Light Yagami was your brother.

The boyfriend's name was Takeshi. His hair was dark and straight, and he could always make her laugh. The trouble wasn't his sense of humor (which was rather juvenile, when she looked back on it), or even his raven-dark hair. The trouble was that Takeshi disliked Light—thought he was a conceited bastard who thought too much of himself.

That was a mistake.

"No offense, Sayu-chan, but he's a pompous ass. He walks around as if he owns everything he steps foot on." Takeshi gave her that brilliant smile once more, the corners of his lips stretching past the point where his cloth mask concealed his face from her view.

That should have been the first warning that things would not end well between Takeshi and Light. Of course, Sayu was young and in love (well, more like in crush) and didn't want to face the fact that her boyfriend's face would be painted black and blue if he kept up that attitude.

She thought it would last forever, that they'd get married or something…. That was the last time she ever dreamed about something so pathetically stupid. Takeshi and Light met face to face about a week later, when she and he had met at her house before going out to a movie.

She had been nervous about being in her house with Takeshi, but was fairly certain Light would be working or destroying someone's life or something like that. Besides, Takeshi insisted that he would have to see her house eventually, meet her mother and… her brother. She thought it would be the best time, since Light wouldn't be home.

Light came home early though, and all Hell broke loose.

"Sayu, who the hell is this?" he asked calmly, casually tossing his school bag onto the floor and moving past both of them towards the fridge. Light was around sixteen at the time, and was holding a record of four part time jobs and his usual four point 'o grade average. Needless to say, he was incredibly grumpy, stressed, and ready to pick fights with anyone.

Takeshi didn't like being referred to so rudely; he was the stereotypical polite Japanese boy and found Light's blunt mannerisms horrifying. "Excuse me! Sayu, is this your brother?"

Sayu sighed, feeling her romantic life slipping away in the distance like so many other dreams. Light was going to give this boy hell. "Light, this is my boyfriend, Takeshi. Takeshi, this is my brother, Light."

Light slammed the fridge door, guzzling down a can of fruity soda (he hated sugary soda like that—it was obvious he wanted to seem disgusting), watching the thirteen-year-old boy out of the corner of his amber eyes. The two straightened, sizing each other up; of course, this had a rather humorous effect as Light's five foot eight frame stood at least six inches taller than Takeshi's. Takeshi, though, looked rather defiant, with a smug smile stretching past his mask. Sayu was cringing.

"Yes, Light-san, I'm Sayu's mysterious boyfriend that I'm sure she's told you about. Now you know that you have nothing to worry about." The smile didn't disappear, even as Light glared down at him.

"Not really. I've decided something, midget. I don't like you; I never liked you. You think, no doubt, that I've placed myself on a pedestal and think I'm above the normal citizen. I haven't. That's why I can look you in the face to say 'I don't like you' and have it mean something."

Takeshi was not impressed, and frankly, neither was Sayu, for Light that was actually being somewhat polite. No foreign swearing, condemnations, no sentencing to Hell—it was actually quite odd.

"Yeah, you arrogant son of a…"

He never got to finish the sentence.

A hospital trip later, Takeshi decided to break up with her. She didn't mind. Even though Light was a complete asshole, he still was far more important to her than any cheesecake boyfriend.

* * *

The day she wore the white robes outside of the meetings was viewed a rite of passage; it was the symbol of her becoming one of the faith. Looking in the mirror, she couldn't help but notice how dirty her shoes looked against the fabric, like she was just a pair of muddy hiking boots and the world was a wedding dress.

The robes were far too large, sleeves draping off her shoulders and train dragging in the dirt behind her; they were hand-me-downs from the last I Servant. For some reason, it didn't disturb her that she was wearing a dead man's funeral dressings. After all, the world was full of corpses—they had to wear something.

She had nightmares, sometimes, when she came home late to her mother sleeping, coughing. Sayu had convinced her not to work after showing her the money (she never said how she got it). But in her dreams, it was Light she was bringing with her to the church, lying to him, telling him they were going to a party. Anywhere, anywhere he wanted—just as long as he went with her, let her take his mask off, let her hold his dying body as his heart stopped in his chest.

He would be one of the silent ones, the one that would turn and stare at her to ask, 'Why?' She always woke up crying at the end of the dream, because sometimes, when the scent of incense was too strong or the excitement was too high, she would find herself thinking of how easy it would be to kill him.

He had once told her that he would have been able to kill her. At the time, she thought it a joke. But what if it weren't? If she could betray him, give him up to the very gods he cursed daily, could he, in turn, kill her in cold blood?

Every morning, she would find Misa staring at her through her brown eyes, her genuine brown eyes. And Misa would look, for one single moment, exactly like Light had in her dream.

But wearing the robes, the money, sometimes it made her forget the pain she felt each morning. It was a brand new day.

* * *

"What do you think Light is going to do to you when he finds out?"

The déjà vu stunned Sayu for a moment. She forgot what to say; to cover the moment, she turned, only to see the blonde former model staring at her. Misa's hair was askew, as always—she no longer cared about her appearance, and yet for some reason she still seemed beautiful.

Even though she no longer went to work, no longer did anything, the fact that she could say those words to Sayu was frightening. She was frightening.

"What are you talking about?" asked Sayu, dusting off her white robes as if being in the same room as Misa dirtied them, made them less pristine. As if Misa's insanity had the power to make a darker shade of white.

"Misa would recognize those robes anywhere. She knows you aren't a prostitute, but sometimes, she wishes you were." Misa had been declining—she spoke too often in third person, as if 'Misa' no longer existed, but some other being was speaking through her, bending her tongue to its will.

"Light isn't here, remember?" Sayu was still so young, so juvenile; she did not yet know how to counter the threat lurking within her house—the threat of Kira, the unknown god that chose to smite the wicked, then disappeared before the eyes of the world.

"No, he's not, but what happens when he comes back and finds out you're dead?" Misa looked like death itself, though she wore no white robes like Sayu. Misa didn't need to dress like a ghost to strike fear into others hearts.

"He's not coming back. You said so yourself!" shouted Sayu, pushing through the doorway and slamming the door in her sister-in-law's face before she could see the model pull out her golden key and mutter a prayer.

Sayu left too quickly. She didn't hear the blonde priestess sigh and say, "I lied, Sayu. He is coming back. May Kira have mercy on your soul."

* * *

**Scourge's Note: Thanks to all you readers and reviewers. :D**

**Kinda a scattered chapter, topic and character-wise. Hope the flow wasn't too jilted, as the timing… was a bit necessary.**


	17. Wounded by Absurdity

**Scourge's Note: **New Years update, anyone? Thanks to you readers last chapter; we appreciate your time. :D

* * *

**WOUNDED BY ABSURDITY**

I may never march in the infantry  
Ride in the cavalry  
Shoot the artillery  
I may never soar o'er the enemy  
But I'm in the Lord's army

-_I'm in the Lord's Army_

**Light's Journal**

**2012, 23 June**

**The Military Confiscated My Clock (and my paper)**

Is this what You call the military?

I have never been one to doubt the military's power. As a child, I was never interested in the war-like video games or the history of previous battles. It is bloody, it is messy, and overall, it is incredibly dull. War does not even bother to disguise itself—it is nothing more than the mindless slaughter of people in honor of some form of abstract cause ironically entitled 'peace' by whoever was in the mood to give inspirational speeches.

It is indeed horrific, but it also appeals rather eerily to the angrier, darker sides of certain humans.

Having been recently introduced to the mechanics of preparation for such conflicts, I must confirm that, once and for all, war holds absolutely no attraction to any part of my being. If I wanted to prove myself a man worthy of honor (imagining, hypothetically, that I were actually in _need _of such proof) I would set out to demonstrate my impressive acumen by, perhaps, establishing myself as the world's greatest detective—something to that effect. I would most certainly not throw myself up in the army so I could chop men into tiny little bits with long-distance machinery and earn a medal for my bravery.

I could have been sensible, stolen Misa's money, paid out a few bribes, and remained at home, but I (of course) decided to avoid my miserable home life by risking life and limb for freedom from the evil overlord who doesn't seem to be remotely interested in taking over the world—because that's what heroes do. They make idiotic decisions.

Some say there is a fine line between bravery and sheer stupidity. They are wrong. There is no line between bravery and stupidity. They are facsimiles. Humans simply have yet to realize it.

You, of course, realize this—after all, You happen to be the divine omnipotent being. I am merely the human.

Bravery is for men who are not aware of exactly how lethal a situation can become; courage is for those who cannot see the gun pointed at their face; valor is for suicidal little boys with guns who have nothing better to do with their time. Personally, I would rather stay a selfish bastard, and remain all the more secure for it.

Do not patronize me, oh Lord. I know what I am and do not intend to change in the near future.

Whatever I was expecting, idiocy or courage, was thrown out the window as soon as the first day began. Training, they called it—a place where we could kiss our childhoods goodbye and step up to become men (and women, in quite a few cases). I called it an unorganized mess where they disposed of recruits that they had no idea what to do with.

Oh, they most certainly attempted to conceal it, and tried quite admirably to pretend that they had even the slightest inkling of how to direct a camp of thousands upon thousands of reluctant, uncooperative recruits who had absolutely no interest in going through the motions. They shouted, ordered, commanded, and demanded more and more from their men, and yet not one of us told us exactly what we should be doing.

On the first day, one official ordered us to march ourselves over to the northeast corner of grounds. We diligently did so, only to realize that, despite his hand's path (which had clearly pointed in the direction we had marched), he had intended that we head to the southwest portion. The officer, in an attempt to conceal his own embarrassment, then admonished us for our stupidity. "A dozen of false alarms that would have been real when in the action—and you better respond more quickly… or else, how would you ever survive on the field?" he ranted, before blushing in embarrassment, turning on his heels and marching away (out of step, it is worthy of note).

What followed: Dozens more garbled, poorly communicated orders.

After a few days it became obvious that the commanding officers are as ignorant of their jobs as we are of our duties. At home, watching the news, I had always suspected there was a significant lack of expertise and experience in the army, based on the number of drafts in the Coalition's armies to the number of men and women actually capable of training said soldiers. I soon realized that I had been entirely correct in my assumptions, to the point that I would venture to call said assumptions _lenient_. There was no experience to be had with these men—only rote learning and frantic orders.

One might believe they were trying to speed up the training process, ensuring we were prepared as quickly as possible, and going over only what we needed, but in truth, they had no idea what to teach us. They exchange nervous glances when questioned, but their stiff posture and barking voices attempt to impersonate men with greater authority—men who know what they are doing.

The only man in this whole goddamn place that shares my opinion is an old geezer who looks as if he'd rather be in a morgue than dragged out to action again.

It would be so much easier to criticize him if I didn't have the same fantasy myself.

He reviews us with tired eyes and shakes his head; he knows we don't stand a chance against a group with proper military training. We have nothing on our side but numbers, and with a Death Note that seems to work through masks and has a penchant to step outside the bounds of criminal targets, that can be taken away easily enough.

You really took more time with that thing than you did with the entire human race, didn't You? I wonder how long You took on the cockroach. I have to agree with You, though—I would have devoted similar amounts….

Cockroaches could defeat our army.

One of them crawls in and the whole place goes nuts. You'd think there was a fire or some such horrible disaster. It's pathetic. I hate this place—no, hate is too mild. I _loathe_ this place to the point that I can no longer tell if I would rather be snubbed by Misa for a cadaver than spend another morning staring at that moody-extravagantly-pudgy-aging-senile-bastard.

There is a common saying back where I come from—a proverb, if you will. "Those who dare to mess with Light Yagami shall have to walk through at least nine gates of Hell if they ever wish to see the sun again." Meaning, essentially, I am not forgiving to those who get in my way.

Understatement of the millennium, but sometimes ideas such as it must be put simply for the lesser intelligent percentage of the population. Basically ninety-nine and nine tenths percent of—well, everyone except, me basically. The unwise members of my training camp have yet to realize what I can do to them; I don't have to kill someone to make them miserable.

Speaking of miserable, I had a brilliant idea today. Well, of course it was brilliant; it was my idea, after all. If You don't like the ego, You shouldn't have put it there. Personally, I think it's perhaps my most endearing quality, next to the IQ points….

You can just go to Hell….

Clearly telling the Commander of my perfect record is getting me nowhere at the pace of a dial-up internet connection. A new plan is necessary. Perhaps he needs a sampling of what I am capable of when angry.

And believe, me I am capable of wonders when sufficiently provoked. Your plagues were nice, but are nothing compared to my miracles.

Yours truly,

Light Yagami

Post Script

Drop in with Misa and tell her I said she was a succubus-whore and I detest her profoundly; also, inform her that if she throws out any of my crap, she will rue the day she was ever… am I writing too much?

* * *

It soon became clear to everyone in the camp that Lucis Ferre, who sporadically called himself Light Yagami, was a heartless bastard. Not only was he arrogant and narcissistic—they were all quite certain he was also sabotaging each and every one of them into flunking training camp. Unfortunately, not a single one of them could dig up adequate proof.

Light's Seventh Deadly Sin was Pride, shortly followed by Avarice with just a dab of Wrath on top. He would walk around camp with a smug grin plastered below his cloth mask, nodding to each of them as they passed by, leaving them to wonder what would happen as soon as they turned their backs.

They can't remember the name of what he snuck into the water supply—something poisonous, they thought, but not with enough dosage to kill them. Just enough to give food poisoning to everyone in the entire camp; that's all. Oh, of course—_nearly_ everyone. It's quite the important distinction in this situation. _Light Yagami himself_, the golden boy of the April fifteenth to October twenty-fourth division of Japan's Coalition training camp, had somehow managed to remain completely healthy. He showed up the same morning in the commander's office, inquiring as to which drill he should perform.

When everyone had gotten over being sick to their stomachs and fleeing to the lavatory every five minutes (only to be forced to wait in line for the next twenty), training went on like usual. Of course, the normal calamities had had the time to become far more extreme during their absence. Where before, the camp had been a rather organized chaos, it was instead a frenzied mob. Everyone ran back and forth, completely ignorant of which direction they were pointed—and in the middle of it all stood Light Yagami, smiling that mischievous smile.

They knew it was him; they were merely… sadly unable to provide condemning evidence.

The food tasted worse (did he replace the ingredients?); the beds felt like bricks (did he stuff rocks in their mattresses?); the mornings seemed longer (could he bend time itself?). And all the while, he would watch their aging commander with his wicked eyes, saluting proudly.

It was as if his one true goal in life were to make everyone else completely miserable.

* * *

The commander was not pleased with Light Yagami, which was exactly how Light wanted it. He drummed his fingers against the wooden desk and watched the aging man with something akin to amusement. 'Humor me,' his gaze said. The commander sighed and returned, once more, to sitting in his chair.

"How badly are you willing to fight for this?" asked the man, his exasperated expression giving away all his feelings in one sentence.

"Willing to fail—willing to stay here another six months so I can make your life _miserable_." Light smiled thinly; the commander nodded thoughtfully.

"I thought so—"

"More than that, I will fail every other trainee in this camp. You will be stuck with all of us for another six months. Perhaps longer—it's really up to you. That is, if you aren't fired for your incompetence. All_ I_ want is to be on that list—no I want more than that…. I want to be in _that_ position."

The commander twirled a pen absently in his hand, staring down at the 'gifted soldier list'. "I'm still saying no. Those boys aren't ready to fight, anyway. This isn't a war, Ferre. I don't even know what this is—selective extermination, perhaps? The longer they stay off the battlefield the less likely they are to die—the less likely _you _are to die. I don't like you, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to kill you."

Light stared blankly at the older man, the bottom half of his face just as plain as the cloth covering the upper half of his face. "Do you really think that little speech will stop me from trying?" His stone lips cracked and split into a grin. "I don't think you understand, Lieutenant, who you are dealing with. I _will _get into that special operations group, and _you_ can't stop me."

"Hmph. Still have that problem with authority, Ferre? You'll never get anywhere with that attitude. The military doesn't spin on the whims of one private, no matter how brilliant he might be. Now get out of my office."

The boy stood slowly. When reaching his full height, he clicked his heels together and raised his right arm to his forehead in a salute. "Yes, sir." Bowing slightly, he turned his back on the officer and marched out of his office and into the hallway.

The commander couldn't hear, but he could swear the boy was laughing at him.

* * *

It had only been four months, total, before Light took things too far. It was his nature to go beyond expectations. It's what he had always done, so in some ways it couldn't have been considered his fault. With great productive power also came the ability to destroy; Light was just as capable of creating an empire as he was of single-handedly obliterating it.

It started with small incidents—accidents, if you will. Nothing special. A stubbed toe or two at first. Nothing serious. Then it began to escalate. People started bleeding; bones began to be broken. More than a few minor bruises were cropping up, and one poor lad nearly strangled himself in a conveniently placed tripwire.

One day, the accidents gained momentum. Someone had caught on to Light's act a wee bit early and started a fight. Light escaped with a broken arm; his opponent wasn't so lucky. Light's final gift to the Japan's Coalition training camp before being shipped home for two month's leave, which would be followed by the introduction of his A Team… was a severe concussion and a broken leg.

In some ways, he couldn't help it. Light _always _got what he wanted; who was to deny him now? He would kill if he had to. He just hadn't consciously realized it—at the time, he was doing only what he had to. Small injuries. Nothing too serious. More of a mere threat than anything.

Then again, Light Yagami didn't make empty threats.


	18. My Life Closed Twice

**MY LIFE CLOSED TWICE**

She can't hold her own, who would have known  
She is misery's company  
She's got no place to go, no place to call home  
She's got misery's company  
And she goes straight  
straight for the deep end  
Doesn't have to take to dive right in  
Be careful  
Be careful now

-_The Deep End, Scary Kids Scaring Kids_

Light could taste the blood in his mouth—almost metallic, like iron or steel. Even as the fist struck his stomach yet again, he was perversely pleased by the idea that he should have liquid metal running through his veins. Greater than normal blood, his was stronger by potential; it simply needed the right opportunities.

His eyes flashed towards his opponent, attempting to gauge his weakness. Light was no stranger to fists colliding against his jaw bone; it was in his personality to draw the hatred of others. His brains, his looks, his occasional deliberately-lacking charm were more than enough to drive boys to a fight. Light was the world's punching bag, just waiting for the next angry-grieving-humiliated child to pick up the boxing gloves.

But no one had tried to kill him in a fight before; the punches had been lighter and weaker. Those punches were not meant for death. This man was different. Light had pushed this man too far with his arrogance, and Light knew it. That did not mean, however, he regretted his actions. Light loved the fact that the man knew exactly who was behind his misery, the fact that someone had been paying attention for once in their lives—someone had seen him desperately pulling the strings, praying for change of movement. It was a gratifying, if painful, feeling.

Even as he felt the blood run down his face he was smiling, laughing, luring out a sneer and an attempt to punch Light harder. The man must have mistaken the smile and laughter for arrogance, a blatant insult against his strength. Oh, how wrong he was—was Light the only one who could read between the lines?

Light's own fists slammed into his opponent's stomach—it was not self defense. Light did not need self defense. He was teaching the poor boy a lesson: Never start a fight you aren't prepared to lose (because this boy was going to lose). Even as Light limped around the circle of jeering, pushing young men, he knew he would be the one left standing at the end of their little tumble.

They say the world seems to slow down in the midst of battle—in a fight, that adrenaline becomes your clock, minute hand slowly ticking toward your doom. And so Light felt the fists come slower as the fight progressed. The opponent was good. Too good. Better than Light had expected.

The panic came slowly at first, and then progressed; the man could kill Light, would kill Light if he had the chance. There was a snap—scream, his scream. The opponent was behind him, stretching his arm further back than it was supposed to go. Light felt his heart begin to race—the panic, he later blamed the panic.

Sitting still in the white-washed room that was their medical facility, watching as his arm was set into a cast, he blamed the panic—the blinding, terrifying panic that had caused him to act more swiftly and powerfully than he had imagined. Light was not a big man; he was born lean and small, more adept to running than to lifting weights. He had the speed but not the power. If Light were ever to win a fight, it would be through speed of limbs, speed of thought. Or so he had thought, even as he watched his poor opponent lying unconscious in his hospital bed, his face covered in oozing fractures and flower-petal bruises.

Light liked to tell himself that he hadn't meant for his left arm to batter the larger man senseless, that he hadn't meant to kick his legs out from underneath him—that he hadn't grinned manically at the sound of the snapping of bones, hadn't shivered at the crack of his opponent's skull as it hit the ground beneath him. But if Light lied, he preferred it not to be to himself—fantasies such as those could be far too dangerous.

Even as he stood, staggering above his defeated enemy, his eyes caught that of the aging commander. The man stood absolutely still, his expression unreadable beneath his mask, but if there hadn't been a mask there, Light knew he would have been horrified.

In that moment, it was no longer about honor; it was about survival. If Light had stayed there, someone was going to die, and the commander was not prepared for that consequence. That was why Light was not surprised to find himself achieving his goals, reminding himself even as he held the transfer papers that the ends justified the means.

He was too tired to give up all his fantasies. Only the dangerous ones.

* * *

The funeral bells chimed. Silent and unheard, they filled her mind with their omen of death. They whispered, they clanged, they filled the room with cacophony. The girl alone heard them; the girl alone felt their great iron hearts strike against the outer shell like the great heartbeat of the sleeping dragon, pounding steadily against its ribcage. The mob shouted and screamed at the sight of the great beast looming over them, its yellow eyes ringed with scarlet.

The people waited with the white robes of the innocence they stole, the innocence they wore like masks. They were no priests, those, the afraid who gathered before the altar of the gods, their eyes begging for mercy, those who worshipped their neon gods in the fear that they might be dragged to hell. And now it was her who marched down the aisle, dressed in white, the fear in her eyes. None could escape the dragon's wrath; none could escape its golden eyes.

Her own heart clanged with the bells, a harmony in the discordance they created, the caw of a raven, the laugh of the jackal. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide; time had run out. The mob howled in their hope that they might be free of their deaths. None were free—they were all held within that cage, white as heaven's eternal flame, their faces lost in a sea of masks, lost behind the waves of their broken world.

The blonde priestess stared among the mass, her brown eyes dark as the hellish world she belonged to, the hell she was escaping to. She hid behind the white robes—hid the sins staining her hands, hid the apathy consuming her expression. There was no mercy in her eyes; they spoke with the minor chords of the bells. Sayu turned away from the eyes, as a blind man would turn from the sun.

Undistinguishable among the white sea, the blonde smiled the victor's smile. Sayu felt the triumph in her unmasked eyes; Sayu stumbled upon her path at the power of the gaze. The words came back, the words the she had felt so justified—what had she known, a child dressed in the robes of the sinner? What had she known of justice, of victory, of grief? Misa wasn't the one drowning among the waves; Misa fell through the sea, a moonbeam upon the white waves. Sayu was drowning, Sayu was being whisked to the eyes of the dragon, Sayu was screaming. Only the broken doll had eyes to watch; only the broken doll could hear the bells tolling; only the broken doll dared to look away from the painted idols.

She had no choice. She wanted to scream. She had no choice but to be whisked away on the greed and fear of others. She had no desire to face the beast, she had no want of death—she had no choice. Their eyes were so hateful, their eyes were filled with such rage; they expected it, they wanted it, they needed it. Her people needed it, and what was one child in the eyes of the dragon, the dragon that had eaten so many? The dragon would have found her; the dragon would have found any hiding place. Any sanctuary, and the dragon would have found her still.

Weeping, praying, and casting about in search of the god that might save her, Sayu was screaming. Mercy, she wanted to plead, give me mercy. Save me from the jaws, save me from the monster, save me from the torture. Save me as you have failed to save my people, save me as you have failed to save my father, as you have failed to save my dragon-eyed brother. Save us all.

The brother who was supposed to save her, as he had failed to save himself. The brother with the eyes that hated the world, the eyes that burned with the fires of the divine inferno, blazing ever higher—his anger, his pain, his agony displayed on the still contours of his mask. The brother who justified the ends, the brother who sacrificed everything because he had to, the brother who wouldn't understand why the dragon loomed so close. The brother that was blind to something so obvious—sacrifice, she prayed he'd understand the meaning of sacrifice. He had lost so many pawns in the war with himself.

Panic had lead her to the model, hunched in the corner, the china doll with the cracked skin, the glass wraith with the eyes so dull. She had refused to end it, to end the suffering that kept her locked in the corner, lips forever in prayer, the world beating her to the earth. The blonde woman had turned, and stared, her eyes no longer vague, her gaze no longer so dull. There had been a fire in her reply, a resistance Sayu had not expected. What was the priestess's life? What was so important that she live life as a broken puppet? What was so goddamn important that she should leave Sayu to die in her place?

The puppet stood without the assistance of strings, a crippled monster, her eyes gleaming like fire. A smile returning to her face, and the door closed on Sayu—one last glimpse at the hope being shut away from sight, like a bright star in Pandora's box.

Masks, her world was filled with masks, too many to keep track of. The love, the anger, the sorrow, the death, the pain, the faith, the promises—all masks to hide the fear they felt in their hearts. She remembered not so long ago, when those brown eyes had been filled with joy at the sight of her brother, the boy consumed by his own agony, reveling in the pain he felt, the isolation. She remembered the waltz, in each other's arms—each locked on the other's painted face, believing the lies fed to them, a parody of the lovers they pretended to be.

Their steps spun in perfect time, swaying to the dirge, to the sound of the mournful violin only they could hear. They were pair of stars, travelling about the night skies, their eyes straying to the carnage below them, their masks not revealing the revulsion in their hearts. Light would have stayed for this Misa, this broken puppet, the liar in the sacrificial robes. His golden eyes would have strayed from the world for her merciless gaze, for her frayed blonde hair, for her weak stumbling limbs.

They would not have seen her, standing before the eyes of the dragon, her masked face so vulnerable to its scarlet ringed eyes. They would not have spared a thought for the girl dying before the gods of death, dying for a cause she didn't believe in—dying for the lies she told herself at night, all beneath the dragon's eye.

Though she screamed, she prayed they wouldn't have paid her mind, deafened by the bells, ringing so violently, crashing together, roaring with the sins of their people. Mercy, she needed mercy, she needed salvation—justice, she cried. The dragon was waiting, the sea was drawing closer… their hands outstretched towards her hidden face, their faces lost in the fear and the malicious glee.

(She didn't believe in monsters, she didn't believe in gods, she didn't believe in dragons, she didn't believe in masks, she didn't believe in the hands that came closer, too close. The requiem was rising, the crescendo reaching its peak, the violins screeching as strings snapped and wood splintered. She didn't believe in golden eyes, she didn't believe in notebooks, she didn't believe in white, she didn't believe in lies…. She had to believe that it couldn't be true; she had to believe that there was no need to run, no use in running.)

Their madness was lost to the bells. Their was fear lost among the waves, trampled beneath their feet as they held her down. The dragon's eyes slowly cracked open, unfocused and dull in the sunset. She screamed, her eyes wide with the thought of death—her death so eminent, looming over her like a great beast, burning like the sunlight.

The puppet stared, away from the sea, apart from the fear and the anger. She stood, the distant and apathetic goddess, her brown eyes far from mercy. She stood, the white guardian, pity in her eyes—but nothing of salvation. Sayu reached for her even as the liars' hands touched the flesh of her mask, desperately trying to pry it loose.

She was drowning beneath the weight of the waves, beneath the stare of the dragon; the priestess was so far away, so hard to see, her words almost lost among the screams and pain. She turned, away from her people, away from the horrors of the world, and walked on.

"May God have mercy on your soul."

The light was gone and Sayu's heart felt darkness.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: **Saw it coming? Completely flabbergasted? Wondering where the hell Light's mental condition is going to go when he hears about this? Want to know WHAT WE WERE THINKING? Let us know. Review. It saves homeless orphans who sniff glue and drink from polluted wells.

And of course, as always, thanks much to those who've given your reviews for the previous chapter/s. You're splendid. :D


	19. Driftwood i

**THE LEAVES COULD NOT SEE ME**

Let's dance again  
We'll turn up our sleeves  
I know just where to begin  
Dance, let's dance again  
We could find ourselves before this happens...

-_Dear Death, Emery_

Those who knew Catherine all agreed on one point: She was completely and utterly insane.

Normal insanity is murdering one's wife or children; Catherine was uniquely insane. Her insanity manifested itself in an obsession with cooking—mainly, large and gleaming steak-knives—and a fiery Irish temper, despite the fact that there wasn't a drop of Irish blood in her body. The red hair was considered more blonde than red and attributed to her German heritage. Growing up on the outskirts of New York City, restaurant Mecca of the United States, she had worked diligently in her family restaurant, earning a scholarship for culinary school that would make her a chef in the finest of restaurants.

Scrawny, blonde-curled, blue-eyed Catherine was neither pessimistic nor optimistic. Catherine was, and that was all. She occupied her insanity through food rather than murder, and sometimes it crossed through her head that she would have made a grand Kira if the Notebook had fallen in her possession. But her cooking would have diminished instead, and she wasn't sure if she would sacrifice her cooking for a Notebook that killed whoever's name she wrote. She had the obsessive nature, the contempt, and perhaps even the intelligence to pull it off. But she was also easily distracted—the sporadic idle thought showed between her creating dishes with ease, chopping basil for the soup, sprinkling rosemary for the chicken.

(Who hadn't had a 'what-if' about Kira, anyway? Everyone thought about him, whether they wanted to or not. Kira was humanity's obsession.)

She had been surrounded by food her entire life. Her parents had owned a burger joint on Broadway; it was only natural she should climb up the culinary ladder. Food was her passion—she believed in food the way most people believed in fairy tales and Kira. She had no time for gods of death, only soufflé and other French cuisine. She was not depressed by the necessity of a mask (she had never been too enamored by her reflection) or the fear of her own name—her cursed, hated, deplorable name that would never be mentioned ever again, and was most certainly not Catherine Borelle, the title she claimed now. So, in some ways she was glad when she donned the mask and earned her way through culinary school. Life was depressing, but when hadn't it been? To Catherine, the apocalypse was another recession. Nothing too serious.

And it did happen. Catherine was proud of her recipes no matter how strange or bizarre they might seem. It got her to places she had never dreamed of, spotless kitchens where the masked chefs worked under her like dogs. The war was nothing to her—she was living her dream. So what, men were dying? Men were always dying. The war did not cross her mind until her insanity managed to show at an absolutely improper time. As always, it involved her obsession with knives.

The food critic sat still and silent, staring at the shellfish, his mouth twitching beneath his official mask. Perhaps the polka-dots were a bit much, but purple-spotted crabs were a classic. Or, if not a classic, Catherine dreamed they would be.

Apparently, the critic disagreed. He stood abruptly from the table, clutching his mask and running to the bathroom. Catherine blinked, noticing her assistants moving carefully out of her sight, most likely avoiding her sharp temper and even sharper collection of knives.

"In the name of ambrosia, did he just run to the bathroom before he even ate anything?" Catherine attempted to hold back the chaotic mess of her strawberry-blonde hair and calm her temper before she exploded, killing all the waiters in the restaurant (because no one could work under her if they were dead). She failed at both.

The food critic returned from his trip to the men's room. She stalked out of kitchen, steak-knife in hand, grinning maliciously with her apron and the doors flapping haphazardly behind her.

Moments later, the table found itself far better acquainted with the steak knife than it ever had been before.

"Something wrong, sir?" she asked politely, her voice strained beneath her demonic blue glare. The man gulped, quickly taking notes down on the chef's frightening behavior. Of course, that did not improve him in Catherine's eyes—despite the fact that there was a still-quivering knife lodged a good inch deep into the table before him, he did nothing.

Of course, her boss did something. He fired her. New York restaurants wouldn't hire her; she became the cooking pariah. No well-reputed restaurant in the continental US, or Paris, would ever hire her again; she practically had a criminal record, for the way they avoided her and her recipes. That's when her thoughts turned towards the war. They needed cooks, and those poor bastards couldn't fire her, even if they wanted to.

The restaurants wanted someone responsible, someone not liable to murder or violence. They didn't want Catherine. They didn't want her or her knives or even her insanity—she sometimes reminded them that they couldn't avoid insanity now-a-days. They simply didn't care, and neither did she.

The army flyer is what caught her attention—Uncle Sam demanding penance, once again, from his subjects. And this time, Catherine agreed with him. She was relatively lucky; no misfortune had befallen her in the apocalypse. But she couldn't outrun Kira forever. It was time she joined the mass of suffering people he had affected.

She didn't need a high-paying job; Catherine needed an audience. Like an actor, her dishes were a work of art, and she would be dammed if a single person didn't try it. And this was the reason Catherine made the acquaintance of the self-proclaimed god, Light Yagami. At the time she had no idea she was signing up for anything more than serving a bunch of greasy men—but men were better than nothing, better than food critics.

So as she packed her bag, she tried to envision the sloppy chewing of her future audience, the disgust she would clearly show every time they came to her for provisions, and the insults she would throw at them. She imagined the dough she would mold into little fat bread-men that she would crush, only to mold them again, keeping the boredom and insanity at bay. She was cringing already, and yet she still had that vague feeling that it was better than starving on the cold streets of New York City.

* * *

Mogi was reading the funnies when the epiphany hit him.

It was not an unusual day; Tokyo's spring weather was relatively mild and the only unusual thing was the fact that he had avoided being drafted for the fourth year in a row. The coffee was a celebration for surviving another year—or at least, that was how Mogi saw it at the time. The newspaper had been there, and being the man that he was, he skipped the front page.

They put the bullshit propaganda on the front page. That was where Adessi spottings waited, Shinigami servants raided, and Kira worshippers edged to the extreme. No one bothered reading the front page anymore—instead, like Mogi, they looked for some entertainment. The funnies were suitable entertainment. So, stoic as usual, Mogi opened the newspaper to the colored pages of new masked comics making terrible jokes about heart attacks and Nealan Adessi. You couldn't escape him, even in poorly drawn cartoons.

Mogi did not laugh; he had never been the sentimental type, always blending into the background. He supposed that was why he hadn't been called to duty with Soichiro, Aizawa, Ide, and Ukita. Of his coworkers and friends, he and Matsuda were the only ones to escape the mighty power of the government. Matsuda had been judged incompetent (or perhaps just lucky) and Mogi—well, despite military background, Mogi, as usual, eeked away unnoticed, nothing but another paisley-patterned flower on the wall of life.

Mogi was like the funnies, always at the edge of your mind—the cheap table-cloth keeping the wood from getting dirty. Mogi didn't mind; it saved him a lot of trouble, not having to serve twice, and although he never particularly liked Kira, he didn't feel that he had to hunt him down with a gun. Mogi, of all people, knew the war was a hopeless cause—random bombings, massacres, and then redemption as Kira did something stupid. Kira, whoever he was, was terrible at winning wars, and everyone knew it. It gave the armies hope, the fact that Kira would falter and stumble so openly. Mogi thought it was a bit frightening, if he had to be honest with himself.

He noticed the masked panel of a small boy with short brown hair; the boy was smiling as he delivered his joke to the intended audience. Mogi wasn't laughing, no one was laughing—it wasn't funny. It wasn't close to being funny. Whatever sick person had thought that it would be funny should have been shot. Was this what L worked for when he took on the Kira case? Was this what Mogi worked for as he hunted down Kira under the faceless L? Whoever would have predicted that four years later, the whole world would have been turned upside down because of Mikami Teru and Nealan Adessi?

Mogi couldn't have predicted it, and if he couldn't have predicted it, then he doubted anyone could. They didn't have the right to joke about it; no one had the right to joke about it. People were dying. Mogi saw them every day as he walked to work. Tokyo was the middle kingdom, the origin of Kira, the beginning of Shinigami. The Shinigami Servants milled about Tokyo like flocks of pigeons descending upon their latest victim. That's why the streets of Tokyo were so free of homeless—they were being eaten alive.

Who had the gall to laugh about that? Who had the gall to crack a juvenile joke about that? The funnies did, the sitcoms did, and Mogi wasn't laughing. No one was laughing. Good mood vanished, Mogi tore up the paper full of lies and hatred; he didn't need that. He was one of the few, after all, that knew the truth. He was one of the extreme few that had seen Kira's face; he was one of the only two left alive who had lived to see Kira in custody.

Signing up for military service for the second time in his life did not surprise him. He was tired and bored. And he wasn't laughing.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: ...And looking at this chapter, I realized that this is where the ORIGINAL plot was supposed to start. Wow. Two and a half years has changed a lot. ALSO. The next four (five? three? I should just stop counting. I can do oxidization numbers, but once you get simpler than division, that's about it. Algebra screwed me over for life.)-er, next few chapters were originally one big huge disorganized clump of randomness, because Carni got too lazy to send me the completed rough drafts individually, and has now taken to doing twelve thousand words at once, then sending them to me RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF FINALS WEEK. Way to prolong the procrastination. -ahem- At any rate, the chapter titles will follow the path of a tree from the time it grows, to the time it is cut down, to the time it floats all lonely across the sea... and whatnot... Which is all to say, the next couple of chapters will all be titled "Driftwood" on the ff net drop-down and email things, but they will be different pieces of writing. Don't get confused.**

**And now, a note about OCs, brought to you by Irate Fanfiction Readers. Um, we fully acknowledge that OCs have the potential to be obnoxious. We fully acknowledge that OCs have the potential to be Mary Sues. All we can say is this: More OCs are coming. They will not play an amazingly integral role, but they were necessary to continue the plot. They will also not be Sues, because... really, what would be the point of that? A bad character is essentially wasted space in a story.  
**

**At any rate, thanks, all you people. Seems we've picked up quite a few new readers-welcome aboard. And, as always, a thanks goes out to the reviewers, who clearly have too much free time on their hands, and are clearly using it for completely unproductive, but well-appreciated, purposes. Like reading and reviewing fanfiction. Good for you.**


	20. Driftwood ii

**Scourge's Note: It is worthy of mention that from this point on, even more OCs will become involved in the telling of the story. They will not have primary roles, but, unfortunately, too many of the original Death Note characters are dead to make continuing this story possible without the inclusion of OCs. That's right. We killed off so many canon characters that we didn't have enough left to realistically finish our plot. We needed... twelve characters to compose the official structure of an A-Team (no, seriously. Look it up). We had to resurrect Mogi to get one below half of that. That said, twelve characters is too many, and you will not be seeing that many new additions to the tale. On the plus side, for all you readers who see OCs and think "MY GOD, NO," there are more Death Note characters on the A-Team than there are OCs. At any rate, bear with us.**

**Also, any of you who came to this profile via Carni's link will... probably recognize more than a few aspects of the second character. Yes, we are aware. I had nothing to do with it.**

**Carni's Note: ****People can just deal, because they would have figured it out anyway if we just changed his name. Plus, he is my character. It's not like I stole him from Silver Pard.**

* * *

**BOUND ABOUT THE GOLDEN TREE**

Oh, God, are you listening now?  
as this cancer dances through her, and then takes a bow  
It won't disappoint the crowd, whose word is a curse, as I hear them one-by-one  
Please pull the string, and I come undone

-_Dear Death, Emery_

Marcus stared at his bleeding daughter in the hospital bed, at her face, painted with bruises and dried blood. He watched the unsteady rise of her breath as she lay there, dying from wounds that were his fault and not his fault. He felt his anger broiling beneath his skin, waiting to rip those vagrants apart, the ones who had done this to her. What had she done to them? What had she ever done to deserve this? Even if she lived, she would be crippled, a vegetable. Marcus did not have the money to support her; his daughter was going to die. Because he hadn't been there, because he had been a journalist, because he had written too well. She had paid because he hadn't given in to the mob of suffering, because he had been too slow to act and pull her out of the way in time.

He had found her, lying across the apartment floor, her skin ripped from wounds and her bones broken from the rage-filled young men with crow-bars and baseball bats. The men who had broken into his house because once upon a time he had written news columns, because once upon a time he wrote for L.A.'s local newspaper—the newspaper no one had bothered to read before the apocalypse. It was only read afterwards, so they could find him, kill him, dance in his blood as they took their revenge against all reporters for Adessi's mistakes. To them, all journalists were the same—greedy, responsible for all the trouble in the world.

His daughter was no reporter. She had written no columns; writing was dangerous, and not her profession. She had wanted to dance—words were never her strong suit, but they still beat her. They still shoved her into a window and beat her to the floor with their weapons, sneering as she cried. They did not rape her; they did not have to. No one wants the daughter of a reporter, the daughter of someone responsible for all their fears and suffering—no one would want to lie with someone like that, even in violence, even in anger.

Instead, they had brutalized her to the Acheron's edge, and now here she was, lying before Marcus, incapable of speech in her unconscious state. He wondered if she knew he had come to hold her hand as she slipped away from him. The doctors and nurses said nothing, but he could see the contempt in their eyes as well—no one cares about the daughter of a journalist. No one cares about a journalist; journalists were the world's new lepers, a diseased species that must be vanquished. Marcus had become vermin, and he could not blame them for it. Who could Marcus blame? Adessi? Kira? Or perhaps no one. Marcus had no one left to blame, no one but himself.

The heart monitor stilled. Marcus would not let go of his daughter's cold hand. Why? Why had he gone into journalism—had he believed in some kind of truth, some need for word to be spread? This was his truth: His daughter dead because of him, because of his work, because of his words, because of him. He could tear apart the hoodlums who broke her, but there would have been others to replace them. Everyone hates a reporter. Even the doctor looked as if he considered killing Marcus. The medical staff probably hadn't even given his daughter pain medication—or maybe they had overdosed her. One less rat in the world.

One less dancer. A dancer is not a journalist—why had they killed her? Marcus closed his eyes and pressed her hand to his forehead before the hospital would kick him into the streets, before they would demand him to leave her corpse with them. They hated him, and they would throw him into the streets. He wished he could kill them all, all those ignorant, angry people who would kill him. Marcus was afraid, afraid of dying, of starving. No one would cry at her funeral—no one but him.

He walked out of the hospital into the warm California sunshine; he felt the sun on his back and looked up into the cloudless sky. They would kill him if he stayed in the United States. Did he mind? Yes, he found he still did mind that they would kill him as they killed his daughter. Society had no pity for vermin. Vermin, he was vermin.

That was why Marcus signed up for military duty in Siberia—a soldier was not vermin, merely a sacrifice. A lamb, an oxen, a pig—all were better than vermin. Marcus refused die a plague rat, slain with poisoned food and a series of steel traps.

Marcus was a coward; his grandmother always told him so. He was a worthless, useless coward—he never said she wasn't right. No one loathed Marcus as much as he loathed himself, but he just couldn't watch himself die. He couldn't wait in his apartment anymore, couldn't wait for them to read his work and find him so they could kill him.

Police didn't care anymore—the true policemen were dead. They had been the first in line; they had fallen years ago. Now there was only corruption, crime, and suffering. No one cared what happened to a cowardly reporter—they only hoped that he would die. They didn't care where, as long as someone had the guts to do it.

Who cared if it was a Kira worshipper, who cared if it was a juvie—they would still spit on a journalist's grave. His grandmother was right, after all—he was a coward, but he was the coward that was going to live. They took his daughter, but they would not take him. Marcus would go out fighting like the coward that he was.

It was not courage that motivated Marcus; it was fear and desperation. Marcus was not a great man, nor a good man—he was simply a man who had lost too much.

* * *

"Oh, Goddammit! You have to be kidding me; do I wear glasses? I might be reading this wrong, wait, no, I don't wear glasses. Dammit, why don't I wear glasses?" Nathanial spilled the coffee all over the letter, and sadly, he could still make out exactly what it said. And he couldn't pretend he hadn't seen it—they'd freeze his bank accounts.

Well, Nathanial had lived without money before; what was a few less dollars to him? He could always steal the coffee, anyway. Or maybe he could move out of the country, avoid the all seeing eye of the army. Of course the army served practically every country, except for a few in northeastern Europe and South America. The countries whose names he could never remember…. How was he supposed to find them if he couldn't even remember what their names sounded like?

"Okay, think this through, Nat, you are a genius, remember. That means you can get yourself out of any situation if you _think_ hard enough. Of course, every time I do think hard enough some terrible disaster happens, but maybe that's what I need. Unless, of course, it works against me and I go in the army anyway…. Damn." Nathanial began to pace as he continued his monologue, eyeing the draft letter while his feet carried him about the messy room. Papers and books were strewn about, looking suspiciously like leaves in the wind. He carefully avoided the books lying across the floor as he thought.

"Would they take a thief? Yes, they are that desperate, so pick-pocketing is out of the question. Would they take a murderer? Well, probably not, but I don't have the coordination to kill anyone. Wait, did I just consider killing someone so I wouldn't have to join the army? I think I did; dear Lord, I am such a heartless bastard. Not that anyone would notice if I killed someone, anyway—everyone is dying nowadays." The pacing stopped and Nathanial dragged his hands through his mass of unnaturally red hair. He needed a cup of coffee—coffee might give him an idea.

Vandalism, would vandalism make them deny him? If he ran around the apartment screaming like a banshee, pouring coffee all over the walls would it make the army believe he was too insane to take on for duty? Probably not, but it was an idea. And for Nathanial, an idea was a marvelous thing. Better than a cup of black, bitter coffee.

Opening his chipped door so that it would slam into the wall, he strode out of his apartment with a grin slapped on his face and a bucket of fuchsia paint. Now why exactly he had fuchsia paint in his apartment, he wasn't sure—drunken spending spree, perhaps? He couldn't remember, but damn was it convenient.

"Good evening, my neighbors and friends, I am here to provide you with entertainment, as always. Because that's what I am, isn't it—the court's jester, the wit that makes you smile. Well, smile for me now, patriots, for it is my finale and I bid you goodnight with this final monologue. Adieu."

Nathanial threw the bucket forward, watching as the hot pink paint stretched across the walls. He drew back, admiring his work of art. "Not fuchsia at all—more of a hot pink. Too neon." He smiled nonetheless, walking down the corridor and launching the paint at every closed doorway (and every open one), still grinning as his neighbors continued to ignore him.

Well, they wouldn't ignore him later. There would be swearing, of course, but that was precisely what Nathanial wanted. It was the coward that survived the battle, the man who ran when he heard the sound of gunfire. Nathanial was proud of being a coward; he would be the man left living at the end of the battle. Who cared if he lost a few medals—who wanted some shining brass thing, anyway? Besides, what kind of a soldier would he make? The slow kind, the clumsy kind, the kind more likely to shoot a comrade than the enemy—a nuisance, a liability, not a man who should freely wield a gun.

They had once called him a genius, gifted, and a prodigy; they had said he had a bright future ahead of him. Nathanial didn't need to be a genius to know they had placed their money on the wrong horse. He didn't have the ambition or greed to climb the ladder of power. He would rather laugh at the view from the base as the young men scrambled to the top, where they could see nothing but clouds. They tested him endlessly as a child, reveling in his wit but wondering why he acted the way he did, why everything he tried ended in failure—every hobby, every pet project, everything.

He hated the men who pushed him to be something he wasn't. He was no detective; he would lead no crusade against crime. He had grown up knowing that, yet pushed to it all the same. Nathanial worked to please no one. Not even himself.

Kira could burn in Hell. L could burn in Hell. Adessi, well, Nathanial knew where that thought was going. Hell must have been crowded of late; after all, so many sinners were dying. They might have to perform an expansion. Nathanial didn't want to meet the lot of them in Hell, and so, with in honor of a true coward, he threw paint on the walls, praying that something would happen.

But unfortunately, as always, God overlooked Nathanial's prayers. Nathanial did join the army (against his will), sighing, cursing, and drinking coffee all the way through training. He did his best; being Nathanial, that didn't amount to much.

* * *

**A Note Brought to You By Both Authors: WE REUSE TO POSHT UNTIL Wii GETz 666 MOAR REVEEWS. /end badfic writer impersonation. We're disturbingly good at it, don't you think? But no, not really. We'll post regardless of the number of reviews, because our egos are so large that we DON'T NEED YOUR VALIDATION OF OUR EFFORTS. Yes, you heard us. We are not review whores. Disregard the fact that Scourge dropped to her knees to beg for reviews a few chapters back. (ba dum chhh) Anyway. Reviews are greatly appreciated, though, as it lets us feel slightly better about ourselves when we see the 'Near is a mermaid' fic and realize it has at least one hundred more reviews than us.**

**The committing suicide in the eyes of the readers will tone itself down next chapter.  
**


	21. Driftwood iii

**Scourge's Note: And thus, we shall temporarily cease with the committing of suicide in the eyes of our readers.**

* * *

**THE GOLDEN APPLE STOLEN AWAY**

It's the wrong side of fear that kept me out  
It's the wrong inside that fills my mouth  
It's left me without

_-Dear Death, Emery_

Matt hated foster homes—they were always loud and dirty. Usually, the foster parents couldn't even afford to get them proper clothes, let alone a new video game or two. Not that there were many video games left in the world. Somehow, people really didn't care about the new version of Final Fantasy anymore. Matt was the only true gamer left.

"Happy Birthday, Matt," said Charles, his foster father. When Wammy's had collapsed with its owner's death, Matt had refused to be adopted, and so was left in the crowded halls of foster homes. Matt didn't smile; he needed a cigarette, but his legal guardians weren't too happy when they found his room filled with smoke. He sighed, his foot twitching as he surveyed the pink frosting. Finally, he thought. He would finally be considered a legal adult, responsible for no one but himself.

Manifest destiny. Matt peered through the green haze of his goggles and pretended to be enthused. This was it—he was leaving tomorrow and egging his own house. It wasn't that Charles and Mary weren't nice; they just weren't that fun. They nagged too much, always wondering why he smelled like cheap wine, or why there were cigarette stubs in his car. They knew damn well why, and Matt was tired of trying to explain that he just wanted a little fun. A little fun meant being grounded.

As ironic as it was, Matt found himself missing Wammy's more and more with each passing year. Each pink frosted cake was another reminder of the birthdays at the orphanage where no one even knew what age he was. There was always isolation at the orphanage, and competition, but that was what Matt thought of as home. He missed it, even that stupid title they fought for, the one he had never wanted in the first place. He missed L, Roger's scolding, and he would be dammed if he ever admitted it.

The day they had been separated, each to a different foster home, they looked at each other and asked if this was the end. Near and Mello left together, leaving Matt behind. Matt had never predicted that. He had always thought it was him and Mello till the end. The foster homes changed that; it was Matt who was left the lonely orphan, usurping Near's throne of isolation, left to rot in the outskirts of London. They had left him for the sake of revenge on the man that had destroyed their futures. They hated each other—Matt knew it more than most that they weren't faking when they fought. Near and Mello wanted to kill each other. So why had Matt been left behind?

But now, there was the final cake. The final batch of candles, eighteen candles. He was free, and Godammit, he was going to find Mello and punch him black and blue. He had never wanted to be L—he had declined all offers to be an heir. He had failed all his tests so he wouldn't even be in the running. And this was how he paid for it.

"Close your eyes and make a wish, Matt."

Matt leaned in and blew those eighteen candles out, before leaning back with an easy smile. He didn't need it, but the wish would help. Charlie and Mary hadn't checked the papers on Matt's desk, waiting to be mailed. If they had, they would have moved Matt's birthday back a few years—no one wanted to see a child signing up for the army.

But Matt wasn't a child anymore, and he didn't have to act like one anymore.

Or, at least, that was the lie playing through the fourteen-year-old's head as he strutted through the enrollment lines, lying between nicotine-stained teeth, twitching his ash-stained fingers.

* * *

"And this year's American Idol is…" there was a drum roll and a short pause as Ryan Seacrest's replacement looked at the letter in fake anticipation. Matsuda hated the pauses, and jumped to his feet as he watched the unknown actor wink at the audience. The arts had really taken a dive in the recent world situation.

"Come on, it's Smith! It has to be Smith!" Matsuda hadn't gotten to vote due to the fact that he was living in Tokyo, and was watching the show despite the fact that it had ended months ago in America. Matsuda didn't mind if he didn't watch live.

"And it's Caroline Travis!" The country star's eyes sparkled through her mask as she went and hugged the small television host while Matsuda sat and cursed, flinging the popcorn he had been eating at the screen. It was really quite pathetic, as Light Yagami would have said.

Matsuda had worked with Yagami's own father on the infamous Kira case, and he had fallen to this: Watching American Idol, eating popcorn, while his world collapsed around him. They all had their guilty pleasures; American Idol was Matsuda's. But the trouble was that he hadn't realized his own downfall—he was completely oblivious.

It wasn't the only thing that was unintentionally ignored, either. The mail had been quite neglected. If he had checked his mail, he would have been in quite a different mood, because on the top of the pile was the draft letter that had avoided him so long. His luck had finally ended—if only he had checked his mail. Perhaps, on a subconscious level, he hadn't wanted to know, but feared it had been coming. Matsuda wasn't dumb; he just wasn't brilliant and had a habit for speaking before he thought. And being surrounded by brilliant men made it worse—he remembered L having no pity for his attempts at insight.

He was constantly outshone by those who jostled him. He couldn't help it. But he was not dumb, and perhaps that's why he avoided his mail that particular day. Even as he got up, sighing, and turned off the television, he still ignored the pile of bills and the feared letter. He must have smelled the stench of bureaucracy through the envelope. It wouldn't be until the next day that he would open the letter and shake his head in disbelief, refusing to see his luck trickle away.

Matsuda had lived four years already—wasn't he home free, yet? Hadn't the years absent of the dreaded letter proved the military didn't want him? He would not swear or cry or show any emotion at all; he would simply wait and do what he was told. Working under L had taught him that much—sit down, shut up, and do what you're told. L didn't want you to ask how high he should jump; he expected you to know how high he wanted you to jump. The military and L were very similar in that regard, and that was why Matusda managed to shine for once in his life. Matsuda was the perfect soldier.

Matsuda was born lucky. He survived and learned he could be brilliant where others could not. And that is how he managed to meet Light Yagami as a young adult, rather than the child he had known in passing.

* * *

The blonde soldier held the explosives carefully in his hands, watching his companion out of the corner of his blue eyes, waiting for the moment to sneak in. The white-haired boy nodded absently, motioning for them to enter the room. They said nothing. The room was empty but for scattered papers.

Had they looked at the figures, they would have realized the papers were covered in nonsense. They had not been meant to be looked at, merely to be seen—as if someone inhabited the room they invaded, as if they were disturbing some mighty presence, as if they had a chance at success.

They moved past the chairs to the desk, neatly stacked with papers, a fountain pen lying innocently on its side, not a black notebook in sight. They weren't looking for the Notebook, though. They did not count themselves that lucky. The blonde ducked beneath the desk while the boy kept watch, his raven's eyes never blinking away from the closed door.

Sweat trickled down their faces; the blonde carefully applied the explosives, aware of every footstep, every breath, every beat his heart made in that still room. He could feel the immortal blue eyes on his back, watching as his fingers clumsily hid away the timing device. He could feel the Shinigami's icy mind locked on him and the boy, waiting for them, watching them as if they were amusing.

The boy coughed. The blonde grit his teeth, finishing quickly before rejoining his companion outside of the office, safe within the walls of their prison.


	22. Driftwood iv

**MAKE THE FRUIT HOLY AND BRIGHT**

Words of mine are trite and simple shame;  
Still we find a place in everything  
It's just to break the silence that has been crushing me  
Half of me is dead, already gone  
Half is screaming everyone is wrong  
Finally asking now, will you just hear me out?

-_Dear Death, Emery_

**Light Yagami's Bible/Survival Manual**

**12:34 a.m. (and not sure quite what day it is)**

I'm bored.

Am I allowed to say that? With the caliber of my intelligence, am I allowed to utter such blasphemy? After all, You bless me with this wit—You expect me to use it, do You not? At least keep myself entertained. Perhaps memorize the digits of pi, learn a new useless language, or even bake cookies. All of that would be productive and keep the norm occupied.

But I, with the intelligence of let's say… You, perhaps… find such tasks to be far too easy for me, and my mind begins to wander, until once again I strike that brick wall labeled 'ennui'.

Fine, I lied. I simply do not wish to do anything. But sitting at a bus stop is just as boring. Tedious, monotonous—dull, dry, unexciting, humdrum, insipid, uninspiring, bland, uninteresting, and just plain boring. There, I hope You're happy. That's all the synonyms I shall bother writing before my hand cramps up. And believe me, it is cramping up. Damn pens, damn weather, damn training.

Do you enjoy tormenting me? It is a thought that crosses every lowly human's mind now and again, but sometimes, I believe that might be the real answer after all. They say You help us, that pushing us farther into the trap is only to bring us out again. Pain makes you stronger; to go forwards you must first go backwards. That is the optimistic answer. I am no optimist. I am a pessimistic optimist—an oxymoron, if You will. (It's Your own damn fault, You know.) Therefore, I believe in the less hopeful, kindly answer: You simply don't like us, and it amuses you to watch us suffer.

After all, why would you push us so hard, so far, and for so long? To build our character? No offense, Lord, but that is a bit much. You do not need to kill a man for his personality to improve—why, look at me. If anything, I've gotten worse. If you shoot a man in the face, the pain will not make him stronger—it will kill him. I never did understand that saying, so I am assuming You never understood, either.

Perhaps You are omnipotent and omniscient, beyond my pitiful human grasp. I don't like to think that way, but it is an option that has to be explored to a point. But if You are omniscient, then you must be terribly cruel. Inhumanly cruel, cruel beyond my imagination. Look at all the people You have watched destroy themselves, live in agony—You knew it when the world began, and did nothing. You just sat upon Your throne and watched us waste away for millennia. And even now, when we need You the most, You desert us. That is why I have always hated You, and will always hate You.

Because You do nothing.

Kira. What am I to say to that. I married one, after all—I suppose it's time I told You a story, despite the fact that You are omniscient. Because I don't care if You are listening or not; that is not my problem. Many people, including my deranged wife, believe You and Kira are the same, that you came through many a profit to save humanity's soul before it was too late. They call You killer, and who am I to disagree? The killer come to condemn the dredges of human society. I laughed at the time, when they declared him God. Misa, with her pamphlets and her disgusting outfits fit for a prostitute, believed in Kira—in You. If I was reading the signs correctly.

I was depressed when she took me to the church of Kira, god of war and vengeance, Mars in the flesh, holding a ballpoint pen in his bloodied-fingers, ready to write the name of all those who were low in his eyes. The sinners shall be punished beneath him, and he shall save us. That is their belief. I was young when I went to see what all the hubbub was about. My father was dead, thanks to the hands of that monster, thanks to You. I wanted to see Kira's face so I could spit on it. I wanted to kill him so I could undo Adessi's mistake, Kira's mistake. That's why, face covered by both a mask and a cheap sweat-shirt's hood, I entered through the whitewashed doors of the temple.

And it was the domain of the heretics, the whitewashed sepulcher—clean, such pure walls, ostentatiously bleached whiter than snow, whiter than bone… nothing but rot within its halls. It wasn't what you would think of—no gothic architecture of the classical age Christian churches (although there was a lot of Christian influence, if you were looking close enough.) A handful of lit candles in a cheap room and a few portraits of a masked god holding a golden key. (Kira's symbols, in case you weren't aware, are the golden key, representing salvation, and the white mask, representing the face of justice.) Nothing more than that.

I had gone to a suburban church, not the main congregation centered in Tokyo. I did not want to see Kira in his full might—rather, I wished to face him on my own terms. There were a few people kneeling in prayer, seemingly oblivious to the fact that no one seemed to be listening. In the end, I decided against vandalism and left just as quietly as I entered, because once again, I had witnessed the great changes left by the masked apocalypse. The lack of homelessness—despite the increase in poverty, the increase of crime, the bodies of murdered reporters dangling out of windows, blood streaking down the sides of the building, the white robed shinigami servants dragging some poor, starving child to his death, and the masks. All Your legacy.

I have seen enough of the sickness to know we will never return to the way we were; if, by some miracle, a band of people decided to unmask all at once, the Shinigami would kill at least half the population. No one wants to take the chance to be the unlucky half. We're human. We survive and do the best we can with what we were born into. Our population is dwindling; we are dying as children stupidly rip their masks off in play, as teenagers too young to remember the might of Shinigami dare each other to remove the mask. See what is true and what is not. Our faces—they are like a disease threatening to kill us all. Just one step away from a fatal heart attack. I wonder if we will one day become extinct, when one too many a child tears their face off.

Is that what You had in mind for us, to have us die by our own forgetfulness and paranoia? It makes me tired. Even as I sit in the middle of this small suburb outside of camp, I am so tired. Tired of lying, of fighting, of You.

I don't want to go home yet. I want to sit here in the middle of nowhere, waiting for a bus. My sister, I worry about her—even Misa worries me. Sayu is so naïve; she isn't nearly so bitter as I, and rightly so. But to exist in this world of hatred, we must be bitter, so we can cling to something besides our masks. I do not want her to be like me. People hate me, and I do not fault them. At least my sister, I can say, has not inherited the depression of society. My mother, if I am to be honest, is less on my mind than Sayu. Sachiko can take care of herself. My mother does not need me so much as Sayu does; Sachiko never made me her crutch. Perhaps I replaced Sayu's bitterness—I am what she clings to, and it worries me.

But I doubt it worries You. Joy, the deity who remains aloof throughout the end of the world, even less courteous than I—I say that as an insult, not a compliment. At least I am trying to be a bastard. You have no excuse.

Right, here's the bus. Goddamn, I'm bored and cold and I can't wait to go home. Victory is so sweet.

* * *

Naomi Misora was not your average grieving widow. She prided herself on such a fact—she would not break down and weep for the man she had nearly married. She would not weep for Raye Penber, but she would remember him fondly enough. That's what she had limited herself too. Raye, as good as he had been, wasn't worth destroying herself for.

The bartender watched her warily as she surveyed the poor, suffering men sitting across from her. She did not smile because of their drunken blubbering. It was a reminder of why she wouldn't give into depression as so many had—because it would make her smell like them, the drinking, dying, rotting fools.

"Are you actually going to drink anything, lady?" asked the bartender with a deadpan expression. Naomi looked up and sighed wistfully, ready to launch into the story she had perfected for every time she found herself indulging in the hobby of 'drunk-watching.'

"No, you see, I'm broke. I'm actually here so that I can watch everyone else get drunk so I can feel better about myself for staying sober. You see, I pride myself on the fact that I have not become some drunken whore—so I ask you, why do you care if I drink or not? What would you gain from it besides money, and what is money anyway? Will it bring back the dead? I didn't think so." Naomi wished it were a better story, but it wasn't. It was the best she had and she'd be dammed if it weren't good enough.

The bartender stared, blinked, and moved on. Naomi wished she could do the same, but sadly, she could not. Naomi was stubborn. She wouldn't give into depression, but she wouldn't compromise her unhappiness, either. It was a tricky situation, and she hated it. She had been labeled 'Cold Fish' by every man who stood within three feet of her. It was grating on her nerves, and there didn't seem to be any solution in sight.

That was until the television gave her the answer—the flashing colors, the vibrant, bold letters, stars leaping from them as if to escape their clutches. It was obvious who was advertising from the first second. The army's desperation was often conveyed within the first second of commercial. This time was no different.

"Are your pockets empty? Are you longing for adventure? Then military service is the thing for you! Join the Coalition now!" Naomi's eyebrow raised beneath her mask. Dear God, it sounded like a brochure. Who would believe the army would provide her with adventure and wealth?

Naomi looked down at her wallet, empty of nothing but a few loose dollars, then back up towards the television. Who was she to condemn them? She was watching depressed men get drunk. That left no room to judge.

Her wallet was still next-to-empty, and didn't look as if it were changing any time soon. People didn't like hiring since she was a woman, for one thing, and because of her connection to the Kira case. Thanks to Raye, and to L, of course, she was denied every job she wanted. Raye's death had ensured that. Well, the military would accept her—at least they would know she knew what a gun was. And Naomi (despite the shooting incident with the thirteen year-old boy all those years ago) had razor sharp aim.

"What the Hell? I'll do it."

* * *

**Scourge's Note: Happy Nothingness, Light Yagami. Manga death date's today. D:**


	23. My Tongue is Broken

**MY TONGUE IS BROKEN**

Mama, we're all full of lies  
Mama, we're meant for the flies  
And right now, they're building a coffin your size  
Mama, we're all full of lies

-_Mama, My Chemical Romance_

"I don't understand," muttered the reporter in reluctance, staring at the budget plans and wondering what, exactly, he was missing. He didn't like feeling the Shinigami-child's impatience as it prodded and mocked him—as if it should be easy to follow his twisted way of thinking, as if it were easy to navigate the labyrinth of his thoughts, sweeping through past, present, and future as if they were the stones beneath his feet. It couldn't be just the blue eyes; the demon had more than one trick up its ripped sleeves.

"What good is money if it stagnates in our own pocket, Nealan? The world must be saved from the depths of poverty." The demon-child held the pen in front of the piece of paper with a laughable authority. It was still odd to see a child who looked no more than ten years old, but asserted more malice and ruthlessness than the reporter, a full-grown man, could ever hope to convey himself.

"Yes, but the Shinigami Servants? And blowing up a post office in Japan? What does that have to do with anything?" Nealan grabbed the paper, attempting to make more sense of the hectic scribbles that served as the Shinigami's writing.

"Anger is a dangerous attribute, Nealan. It turns man against man, brother against brother. One angry human is enough to destroy and empire, reckless enough to kill himself in the process. His caprice is fleeting and vicious—every word he speaks fells entire mountains of possibilities and pulls new ones from the earth's depths, and the resulting tremors throw up far too much dust for me to properly locate their source. If I cannot see him, then at least I can knock him off the chess board—whether through grief or anger, I do not care. I will not be distracted by a single human; I will not bend to the whims of one man. "

Did his blue eyes see past the fall of man-kind? Did they see their buildings collapse and the oceans engulf the remains of humanity? Did they even bother to look? The child god was fascinating and frightening, always sober, always thinking ahead, leaping forward without a glance back to see the reporter falling behind, stumbling along the broken path.

"Are we still talking about L?" wondered Nealan out loud, trying to imagine just when the enemy had changed, and who this poor new rival was to challenge the Lord of Death.

"No. L is broken. I can do nothing more for L Lawliet." There was a hint of regret within the Shinigami's innocent voice. The figurehead of justice had fallen before Kira, and now there was no Devil for him to vanquish. It was the loss of another god that made the Shinigami's voice falter—nothing more. Neal knew better than to think the demon could feel pity.

"Whoever he is, this new opponent, he's an idiot." Neal believed whole-heartedly that he would see this new man's corpse in the prisons within a few months—maybe less, if the demon could muster enough drive to find him and punish him for his insolence—punish him for the mere belief that he could win.

The demon in question began to smile, letting out a single ironic laugh.

"Oh, you underestimate him, Nealan. He is anything but an idiot. But he is also a fool in many ways—nothing but an angry fool."

* * *

His wife had turned into a ghost, her blonde hair dripped in black at the roots and her genuine brown eyes peeking out behind elongated lashes. She was pale and thin, an awkward mass of bones—not the woman Light remembered leaving, not the woman he had been expecting to tolerate. For once in his life, Light saw Misa's true mask, the one she wore in the dead of night when the nightmares crawled underneath the floor-boards. It was the face she wore when she spoke to her god, the god that wanted to kill him, the god who had killed his father, the god who had destroyed everything he believed in.

He said nothing as he watched her; he had not expected her to meet him. They had hated each other. They would have rather died then live with each other, sleep with each other, love each other. He could imagine the circles hiding beneath her mask, lingering with the sleepless nights of endless praying and chanting. Her vivacious personality had faded with the mask of flesh she had once wore—so many years ago. Now she was expressionless, a marble statue trapped inside a foreign church.

"Your sister is dead."

Light snapped into focus. His eyesight sharpened as he attempted to see through her act, see through the dead-white mask she presented to him, masterfully placed, as if it had been his own. Painted over with white glaze, it shone before him as bright as the sun. He could not find the flaws.

He wondered how he appeared at that moment—a beat up traveler ready to return home after a long journey, a hero at the end of an adventure novel, or something else? An angry, spoiled young boy come home to find his sister….

Light snapped into focus. His eyesight sharpened as he attempted to see through her act.

Snapped, focus, eyesight.

Act.

Her act, her play, her sonnet, her epitaph, her dirge, her haiku…. Her lie. Her lies. The prophets of demons always lie, demons always lie, Kira always lies. Lies, illusions, fantasies… dreams?

"I'm tired of lying, Light Yagami, I'm tired of trying to fit into your world, to love you, to keep you from war. I've had enough of you; it is pointless lying anymore." The woman sighed, but it was distant; Light Yagami wasn't there. Light Yagami was lost in the forest, stuck at the fork in the road. Which of them tells lies, which tells the truth—or are they both liars? Were they all born liars?

Who was Light Yagami, the moon night god, the boy with the mask for a face? Lost in a sea of death, notebooks, and gods. And who was the woman standing before him, offering a rope? Was it a rope or a viper? Light couldn't see; he was drowning in his self-induced panic.

Light snapped into focus. His eyesight sharpened as he attempted to see through her act.

He was repeating himself, tripping over himself as his thoughts flew past him, abandoning him to his misery. Light had never believed in love—he had respected his parents, but he had not loved them. He cared for his sister, but he thought he did not love her. Did he love her? Was the drowning love? The way his mind was killing itself in memories—was it love love? And what was Misa, then? What was she?

Mask-less Sayu laughing, crying, slowly dying. She was five again, running through the yard behind an eight year-old Light. She was so young to drown in misery, drown with Light in his loneliness in his grief and anger. She did not deserve such a fate.

But Light did not think that, because he was falling behind the thoughts, he was stuck in the mud of his disbelief and rapidly disappearing contentment. And the anger was brewing—there was so much of it… too much of it….

"She's dead," Light said, in confirmation. It was to himself, and he did not expect her to answer; he didn't even realize she was there. To him, Misa was about as tangible as his own web of thoughts, just waiting out of reach.

"Shinigami Servants are efficient." Misa was more dead than any ghost he had known; she looked drained in her Lolita-styled outfit, something she had donned more in recognition than actual personality.

Light still said nothing. What was there to say? Words were his weapons, his tools, his own personal light. He was no poet or author, but he still knew how to manipulate his phrases and body language for the world around him—and now, he had nothing. They had failed him, leaving him with no way to vent his anger or shout out his grief.

Light was of three minds, like a tree in which there are three blackbirds. The first saw the girl and said she was not good enough to see his true emotions. What was one more mask to a woman who had shown him so many? The second saw the abyss, the hole in the earth where his words had gone, the words that could have done something. But the second blackbird knew that there was nothing to be done. The third sat highest among the branches. It saw the body of Light Yagami standing there, still and silent, waiting for a rational thought to come his way. And what was the tree? Rooted to the earth as it was, could it see through the valley of death and find his sister?

"Farewell, Light. Perhaps we'll meet again someday. But for my sake, I hope we don't."

Light didn't turn as she walked past him, her suitcase held tightly in her delicate grip, carrying all the possessions she deemed necessary. Depression didn't tolerate heavy packing; her grief was the only burden she had left to carry. He didn't ask where she was going, or why. He didn't care—he never cared about her. What was one more person walking out of his life?

The last ray of sunlight went beneath the mountain.

* * *

"We sent you a letter," was his mother's excuse, his well-fed, well-clothed mother's excuse. Somewhere in the tree, the blackbird was laughing. Light felt the words coming back to him from the depths where they had hidden themselves; he felt his anger and helplessness rise with them.

"You sent me a letter, a letter. Well, that solves everything, doesn't it? The post office was bombed months ago. I never got your letter." It must have been bombed when the letter was in the public institution, ensuring Light never saw a word of what was written.

He wondered just how much they paid her to die, those groveling beggars who called themselves servants of a higher power. How much money did they give to his mother after she died? He looked at his mother once again, evaluating how much her outfit must have cost, how much the house must have cost. It made him want to scream, it made him want to curl up and die. Just how much more could the world take from him?

"I'm glad to see she was worth it, because something has to be worth it. Would I have been worth it, Mother? Am I worth the price of your clothes, your food… your furniture?" He began to pace, his feet carrying him towards his grandmother's china, the few possessions that managed not to be sold. His hands reached past the glass case that protected them and closed around the first painted plate. It shattered against the wall. He smiled slowly. The next one cracked in two, useless, worthless—as worthless as him, as worthless as Sayu.

"We're all goddamn worthless in the end, aren't we, mother? About as valuable as a piece of broken china. Goddamn broken china. That's all we are."

He ran out of plates. There weren't many of them. He searched for something else, anything else, but there was nothing of worth, nothing more valuable than he was. And what was the use of breaking those objects?

The guilt was evident on her masked face; he could taste the pain he was causing, but he didn't care anymore. It wasn't mother to him now. The sorrow was the color of the a dead man's ashes, filled with regrets left unspoken. Light wasn't listening—Light was done listening to them, they who took everything from him, who expected him to live out his life when he had nothing left, they who wouldn't even jerk his puppet strings, and yet still told him to dance. He was no longer slave to the fates.

"Did they throw her body in the dumpster? Like the trash that we are, did you find her face in the landfill? I want to know what she looked like, mother, I want to see her the way you did. Tell me, what did she look like? Was she hideous, are we all hideous?" The words were flooding now, drowning him in their angers; he wasn't even sure they were his words anymore. They were the words of the innocent who had died, of all the people who were dying, of all the people left to watch. They weren't his words, but he meant them all the same.

His mother had nothing to say. There were tears in her eyes, staining her cotton mask. He couldn't see the full agony on her face, but he felt it—and it was refreshing, so refreshing to know that someone suffered with him, that he wasn't alone in his misery.

"What are you going to do, Light?" she asked abruptly, hoping, praying that he would not do something drastic, that he would not kill himself, that he would not recklessly put himself in danger.

Light sneered behind his mask. She didn't know him at all, did she? Suicide was a weakness, depression was a weakness. He wasn't worth weakness. As valuable as a piece of broken china.

Without a word, he walked towards the door, the same door Misa had strode out of earlier that day, the plain white door that stood between him and freedom. He did not turn as he spoke, his voice cold and sober as he said his final goodbyes.

"What did Sayu do, Sachiko?"

The door slammed shut and he could faintly hear the sound of crying, but the dead do not speak.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: And the madness begins... for the six millionth time. Maybe there's just a new layer of insanity. At any rate, I'm sure there's some direct correlation between how often the madness flows and the number of times people click the big button at the bottom of the screen. Mainly because I only remember to upload the documents when the Disguise email account gets alerts of some sort. Today's memory prompt: Lye Tea's new Buffy the Vampire Slayer fic update. Not my fandom, but the writer has some brilliant Death Note stuff floating around that deserves to get read more.**

**Also, I seem to have accidentally replaced chapter ten with chapter two while editing. Prolly within the last month. So... if you're a new reader, you may want to pop back and check on that, as it deals with some important conceptual/thematic ideas. The Ryuk POV will reoccur next chapter, too, and will seem completely out of the blue if you haven't read the ACTUAL chapter ten. /end ridiculously long author's note  
**


	24. The Windstrung Harp

**THE WIND-STRUNG HARP**

Hey sunshine  
I haven't seen you in a long time.  
Why don't you show your face and bend my mind?  
These clouds stick to the sky  
Like floating questions, why?  
And they linger there to die.  
They don't know where they are going, and, my friend, neither do I.

-_Cloudy, Simon and Garfunkel_

Ryuk tried to watch the humans through the viewing pool, but it wasn't the same anymore. Amusing, yes, but too confusing to follow. Without a face to watch, they were just scurrying little mice, running from the smell of rat poison all around them, their little brown eyes twitching with fear.

Chaos. People dying, people shouting, people crying, a mob of faceless people hopping about like rabbits. A part of it made him grin—the mad scramble, the jigsaw of missing faces. But still it lacked the story it had once had. Where once they had a name, a history, now they had nothing but a mask. Nameless, faceless, they scurried about with nowhere to go. It lacked the intimacy the human world had once held for him. Now that the novelty of the masks had worn off, there was nothing to watch.

Boredom had eaten away at him before, but it was nothing compared to what consumed him now. The humans were gone and nothing was left but the ashen desert and the smoky sky. He had once said the world was rotten, and it was. But if that world had been rotten, then the world he lived in now was dead; it was the bones of that rotting carcass. There was nothing for them. There was no gambling, no sighs of discontentment—only the scurrying of humans and Ryuk watching them die.

It was such a disappointment.

* * *

"It's not going to work." Near curled his hair about his finger, his raven's eyes dark with the knowledge of defeat, the hopelessness of his actions. Mello shrugged. Out of uniform, he seemed haggard, as if the years had caught up with him; the bags under his eyes were far too prominent for a child his age.

"What makes you say that?" asked the blonde, sliding back into his indifference, resuming the role of the soldier. Another mask to wear, another role to play, another stage, another spotlight. He had grown up too quickly into the roughened world. Far from the prideful boy he had once been, he was no longer second.

"I used to have puzzles, thousands of puzzles. You simply fit the pieces together and it fit. Perfectly white, they were easy for me. This is like that—it's a blank puzzle, and the pieces are put together. But what if it's not a puzzle, Mello? What if we're wrong?" The pale boy sighed, a phantom against the dark walls, a child of a past that ceased to exist… a reflection of humanity's bones in the crimson glass—white as snowfall, white as death, white as an empty puzzle.

The blonde didn't say anything, aware of the boy's fragile state of mind, of his phantom limbs and raven's eyes. How precious his hold on reality was, and how very easily it could be destroyed. Finally, he spoke. "It'll work, Near."

Doubts were a luxury the soldier did not indulge in, knowing full well the possibilities of failure were high—after all, it was a simple solution. A childish solution, created by children who were tired of seeing their world ripped from them. To allow even a trickle of uncertainty into his mind was to prophesize the failure, to see their work fall to ruin; the soldier's pride would not allow it.

To see the failure would be to die, to give into the despair, to give into the shadow that loomed overhead, to become a phantom roaming the halls of the enemy—child without a past, without a home. Not even a number to name him, not even a letter to bind him—nothing to hold him to the restless earth.

"Such faith you have, Mello." The phantom smiled; it was a distant expression, forced upon his still features in a mockery of human emotion. The soldier shuddered at the sight of the cruel smile with the pity showing in his blue eyes as the expression began to disappear from the boy's pale features.

It wasn't faith; it wasn't belief in some higher power. Mello did not believe in a god anymore. L had abandoned them, L was human—there was no god watching over them. He did not believe in destiny, he did not believe in fate. But he believed in justice.

In his childish heart where all else had been revoked, justice remained, a shining beacon of truth, the one ideal he believed in, the blindfolded lady with a scale in her hands and no expression on her still face. Justice, revenge, fairness, retribution, an eye for an eye—someone had to be blamed, someone had to suffer, someone had to be responsible.

They were still just children lost in the dark forest, following a trail of moldy breadcrumbs.

* * *

The child-god loomed unseen, above the children, his sandman's eyes gleaming. His white wings spread like victory above them, throwing shadows over their pale masks. Eyes of blue seas, he watched, he listened; from far away, his mind heard them. He saw them.

Child of death, sender of dreams, sandman.

The world feared his blue eyes, the eyes that saw what was, what is, and what may come to pass. They feared his mind, sharp as heaven's light, a knife to cut away at his enemies. He had no mercy for children, the demon with the child's face. They were nothing to him—an annoyance and nothing more.

They worked their way through his labyrinth, blind to his eyes—the raven's black eyes and the soldier's ice blue were blind to the omniscient gaze locked upon them. They followed the fantasies he wove for them, the illusions of hope and victory trembling beneath their fingertips, their eyes wide with desire to see the world they once knew.

Dreams woven from the child-god's bandaged fingers, colorful and bright—a golden tapestry of lies and nighttime visions. Sent from the pearly gates, the northern lights paled in comparison to their radiance.

A master of his art.

Angel of the night, guardian of the two gates both pearly and black, weaver of illusions, child-god of death. His eyes were bright with prophecy, with history, with the knowledge that didn't belong to him. Owner of the stolen blue eyes, owner of the sandman's eyes, owner of the sight beyond time.

He stood above them, eyes piercing through the shadow, through the layers of time looping over them, through the false prophecies and the truth, seeing everything—all but the sunlight glowing bright against the darkness that consumed his people. Eyes like fire, he burned with a brilliance the sandman could not see, this bleeding sunlight with a mind like the gods. A star against the death and pain, against the war and the humanity—burning from his own bitterness and hatred, living with the golden eyes. Eyes gold as the dragon's eye, gold as the apple fallen into Zeus's hand, gold as the destruction of his people, gold as the dreams he wove in the moonlight that tasted the illusion of sunlight.

The boy with the raven's eyes stirred, walking away from the soldier, defeat heavy in his mind. The outcome was so clear to him, so much clearer than the false hopes he had survived on as a dying child wandering through the abyss. Hope, a fading star, flickered dimly on the horizon.

The god of dreams faded through the wall and filed the sight of them away, his mind on matters far heftier than the dying of children.


	25. Before My Driftwood Fire

**Scourge's Note: **Um, Matt has foul language. A lot of it. We have been considering upping the rating to M, as the violence of the tale will be increasing... and because Matt's mouth is filthy. We don't want anybody traumatized into reporting us. xD But we'll see.

* * *

**BEFORE MY DRIFT-WOOD FIRE**

This was all my fault.  
You brought me death, and it's everything I wanted  
It's the wrong side of fear that kept me out

-_Dear Death, Emery_

They stood awkwardly, each of them staring at the other, wondering what could have brought them so far from their own homes. They faced each other with expressions of mistrust and curiosity—after all, it surprised them that there were even seven within the prestigious special operations unit. And not a single one of them felt they were talented enough to be standing there, that their training had been comprehensive enough or their commanders had been competent enough. (Perhaps the man who called himself Matsuda felt differently about his skills, but the rest would disagree heartily.)

As they stood in their semi-circle, they all thought the same thing, but only the man called Matsuda had the nerve to voice the thought. "Why are we all here early?"

None of them answered, but instead opted to shift nervously, cough in their hands, and mutter unintelligible sentences. Each one avoided the other's gaze before going back into their own tents, so as to avoid the awkward conversations that would ensue.

What could they say, after all? That they'd been fired, bored, that their daughters had died, or perhaps that they had actually wanted to be in the military? God forbid any of them had chosen to be there of their own free will. So each of them sat, and stewed on what they might have been forced to say. Each one let out a sigh of relief and said, "Thank God I avoided that conversation."

For a military special operations unit, they were without much finesse.

* * *

Light Yagami wore the expression of death the day he walked into camp. His eyes were without emotion as he marched toward his tent (because it was indeed a kind of march—the precision in the way he walked was self-evident). He ignored the other members of the special operations unit flocking about him attempting to say hello, then turning away abruptly at the coldness in his eyes. The mask he wore did not conceal his eyes or his mouth, making his expression perfectly visible.

He stopped before the flapping piece of paper, listing out each of their positions in dark English letters. He blinked before reaching out hesitantly for the piece of paper. He wasn't reading it, not really, but he saw the letters and eventually they formed themselves. They were practically jumping out at his inactive mind, begging, screaming to be heard. Just like the rest of the world, he thought grimly. Why should he give them the time of day?

"So you must be Light Yagami."

Light turned to find a slight red-haired man standing next to him, regarding the paper in amusement or distaste. Suddenly, Light found himself listening to the man ramble on to the point where his words were nearly incoherent.

"Aren't you a bit young to be captain of an A Team? Well, I suppose I'm a bit young myself. What are you, though—nineteen? Eighteen? God, I hated those years, I hated every year of my life…. You know what, I just hate my life. And it looks like you do, too; great to see we have so much in common. You can call me Hans, I work in Intelligence. And you don't actually care, do you? Good, I don't care either. What was I talking about… Goddamnit, I'm going to go get some coffee."

Suddenly, the man turned on his heel and headed off in the opposite direction; his back was straight and his gangly legs were stretched before him as he practically ran into one of the white tents. (Light was at first surprised by the haphazard organization of the tents—as if the people living in them had never set up a camp before.)

Light Yagami was not born an average person; his emotions were always a tad off kilter. And so depression for Light Yagami was not quite what it was supposed to be. Depression should have made him like Misa Amane, staring at a blank wall, thinking about nothing at all. Depression should have driven him mad. But somewhere in his mind, his subconscience refused to be dubbed as insane; whether it was pride or sheer stubbornness, he couldn't say. So instead of insanity, he decided to climb a bit higher on his pedestal, to perhaps get a better view of the sunrise. Or maybe he just wanted to be able to see whose face he spit on.

"Coffee…" he said slowly tasting the words on his tongue, before turning back to where the man had disappeared. He closed his eyes, feeling the cogs in his mind clinking along, creaking with the anger and repressed guilt.

On his pedestal, Light Yagami could almost make out the guilty horror he should have been feeling. It looked somewhat like a black hole—a fascinating, never-ending black hole. Inside, he imagined, there were piles of corpses. They had to put the bodies somewhere when the dumpsters over-flowed.

His throat felt dry, like he had been drinking sand for the last twenty-four hours. He hadn't found any water on his pedestal, yet; he couldn't even find any more sand. But still, the view was nice, even if it was somewhat morbid. Above the clouds, the fires almost looked like stars blooming into life, some mad constellation waving about in the night wind. But still, water would have been nice.

"So… you don't do much, do you?"

Suddenly, Light felt his eyes snap open again; he turned to face the new speaker. This one had a pair of green goggles on over his mask and appeared to be engrossed in his PSP, his thumbs flying between buttons. Light found himself amused by merely watching the young man play his video game.

"You just going to stand there all day? What are you, some zombie-statue? You ever played Resident Evil? Because you aren't nearly as frightening as those zombies, let me tell you," the young man muttered sullenly, shifting his head so that his red bangs moved from the goggle lenses.

Light simply stared, head tilted to the side, watching in complete mental stillness as the man continued to grumble.

"Right, well, are you deaf or something? Because I'm damn sure they don't let deaf guys in the military, or even mute guys. You've been standing here for two freaking hours. You have serious problems."

Light didn't blink, didn't move as he watched the boy with the goggles stand in front of him. Somewhere, the rational Light Yagami, trapped somewhere as he was between a rock and a hard place, decided it might be time to actually say something, or step down from the pedestal—if only to grab something to eat and drink. Light wasn't so sure he wanted to go back down there. It was dark on the ground; there were fires and rivers of blood. He wasn't so sure he wanted to drown down there anymore. Because he would drown if he swam in that river again.

Light Yagami preferred it if he didn't have to look too closely at the world below. It looked far more beautiful from a distance, where gaping, jagged holes almost looked as if they were meant to be, as if they were natural. God, Light felt, was watching from a distance. Why should Light not follow his example? One half of his mind mentioned the fact that Light wasn't God; the other half mentioned that he hated God, but Light ignored both of them and felt the breeze rush through his fingertips and the sun rise in the east.

"That's it, you're just retarded."

Suddenly, the pedestal collapsed and he was falling again—but he wasn't falling, he was jumping. And he was seething; he wanted to kill someone. His eyes opened. He felt his head whip down and his voice rise from his sand-covered throat.

Rational Light was rapidly firing insults, greasing the wheels in his mind while spitting out the occasional curse; the other half of Light was just plain insulted, and between sulking and moping, also decided it was time to get things moving again. The pedestal had collapsed and they were both drowning in the river of blood, but they were so focused on drowning the boy in goggles first that they couldn't taste the metallic liquid pouring down their own throats.

But the darker side of Light, the more violent side, was growing taller. Rational Light was weak, broken down by the world, broken down by everything taken away from him. Rational Light was fading, watching the world pass by him, the hopelessness in his eyes. Wrathful Light was a fighter; he was the one who would survive, he was the one who would press on and would come out ahead, with Kira's heart beating in his hand.

Wrathful Light wanted divine blood; wrathful Light wanted vengeance; wrathful Light wanted mercy to be discarded. There was no more time for mercy, no more time for empathy—wrathful Light knew that. He wanted blood.

* * *

Catherine applied meat to the boy's wounds the way she would put roast beef on a French Dip Sandwich—she slapped it on his face with furious gusto, causing him to wince and mutter a few vulgarities before quieting and cursing once more. She smiled as she watched him cover his purple eye with the slab of beef. He was still wincing, and his other eye was twitching, but he looked better without the goggles. Sadly, the meat would taste a little funny later due to the fact that it was stained by his mask, some blood, and a portion of his eye. Perhaps if she drowned it in garlic, nobody would be able to tell.

"He was standing there for two fucking hours and then he goes fucking nuts and beats the fucking shit out of me. Jesus, I'm fucking fourteen—what kind of an asshole does that to a kid? Isn't this what child-protection agencies are for? What do they do for a living? Eat shit?"

Catherine spent her time humming so as to block out the profanities boiling over in her kitchen. Catherine wasn't fond of swearing; her father had sworn too much…. She reached for her steak knife, then placed it aside on the table and reached for a batch of dough instead. Rolling it, scrunching it, meshing it, molding it—the nicotine had fouled up his language more than enough, but the words were just as rotten as his yellowing teeth.

"Your I.D. says you're eighteen years old, Matt," mentioned Catherine while molding the dough into a deformed face and crushing it against the palm of her hand yet again. She enjoyed seeing the shapes in the dough—like a sculptor, she assumed, she could make her bread-creations come to life.

"Do I look like a fucking eighteen-year old to you, bitch? Does this fucking meat even do anything? I still feel like shit." He turned his one open green eye towards her as if she were the stupidest person he had ever laid his eyes upon.

Catherine's eyes drifted towards the steak knife longingly—what was one less army-brat in the world? No, excessive use of steak knives was what got her fired in the first place. She must remain calm and breath slowly.

Catherine decided, when she found Matt ignoring the world for his Game Boy and other electronics, that she didn't particularly like him. His breath was rancid, he was almost always smoking some cheap cigarette, drinking from some dirty bottle, and saying something vulgar and disgusting. Catherine didn't like his red hair, she didn't like his clothes—she didn't like the arrogant expression hiding behind his goggles and mask. Catherine didn't remember being so arrogant when she was fourteen; she remembered lots of pies (that was her pie year) and lots of customers in her parents' restaurant. She frowned, rolling the amiable dough in concentration as she searched her memory for some hint of Matt's self-confidence.

No, nothing but pies and knives.

"I don't look eighteen, either…" mused Catherine while staring at the sulking preteen, watching as he attempted to play one of his video games one-handed and one-eyed. Another curse left his mouth as his character was sliced into bits… by knives, no doubt.

"Yeah, well you're fucking ancient, bitch. How long do I have to sit here for? Don't I have better things to do? This is a special operations team, right? Shouldn't we be killing some Kira-bastards?" Matt rapidly pressed the buttons next to the portable device's screen. Catherine could almost smell dead cigarettes infesting his lungs; she could almost see their bent corpses littering her old home, could almost hear her parent's wheezing and see the smoke painting the walls.

_Shouldn't we be killing some Kira-bastards? _

Catherine saw the glint of the knife, but her hands were too filled with dough to act. She sculpted away, a smile curling across her lips as she took in the meaning of his words. Catherine liked irony, and she wasn't sure that the red-headed boy could catch the scent. It almost smelled like cigarettes.

Catherine would like to kill some Kira-bastards—she'd like it very much.

She ripped the dough-monster in half and shoved her left hand into his stinking, rotting mouth, gritting her teeth and reminding herself to wash her hands later. She could never quite get rid of the black filth—she could see it just below the surface of her translucent skin. She released the dough and ripped out her hand, leaving him mumbling and gagging on half of her dough-creation—gagging on half of her edible heart.

"The Pillsbury Doughboy likes you too, Matt." Catherine grinned and reached for her knife, raising it under the tent's single dangling light-bulb so that it caught the yellowing light. She stroked the dull end pensively and watched the boy's eye widen as he stood and ran out of the tent, steak still clutched to his face.

She'd have to go get the meat later; she hoped it wouldn't taste smoked.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: Title change. Yeah. Well, we've hated the title since... two and a half years ago, but hadn't wanted to change it 'cause we were at the "...let's leave the stupid mistakes we made three years ago THE HECK ALONE," 'cause the effort to fix all of them would be enormous. Someone reviewed on the matter recently, and we were kinda like, "Yeah, why the heck not." If said reviewer is reading this, well, I'm afraid you'll find that the title isn't any less obscure. At least it's in English, this time. (And it is, essentially, a reference to brain rot. So yeah.)  
**


	26. Why Have They Not Buried Me Deep Enough?

**Scourge's Note**: Lyrics originally in German. The band actually bothered with an official translation for this one, though. At any rate, thanks to alla you readers and reviewers. We've picked up quite a few people recently, it seems. Hope you newbies've stuck through to this point.

* * *

**WHY HAVE THEY NOT BURIED ME DEEP ENOUGH?**

La Le Lu,  
Only the man in the moon is watching  
When the poor children sleep  
(Then you'll sleep too)

Sandman, Sandman,  
Turn off the lights  
The truth is cruel  
So send me a dream

_-Sandmann, Oomph!_

**Light Yagami**

**Does anybody really care about time? **

Am I even writing to God?

I don't know, I don't know who you are, dear reader. Do I care? Not particularly. In fact, I doubt anyone is reading this at all. Perhaps in years to come, this will be burned or buried—the pages will become water logged, the ink will run, and nothing will be left.

Because that's what we are in the end, you and I, dear reader. Nothing but washed-out ink… illegible, intangible, diluted ink washing through the sea. You realize this, reader. After all, you've flipped through these faded pages and seen my works. I hope you have understood my washed-out characters. They say death comes to all of us—perhaps he does, perhaps he does not.

I don't know if it's called death anymore, or even time. Time withers and decays and leaves us with nothing, but it does not throw us into dumpsters or build our pyres for us. So, reader, I believe this is our moment of truth—in which we address our new grim reaper, who carries not a noose or a scythe but something far deadlier. A mirror, he kills us with our own horrid reflections.

I….

I can no longer blame God for what he has done to us; I can no longer blame you, reader, whoever you might be. I pity you in some ways, responsible as I have made you. What do you think of me now?

There isn't enough ink for the blame I would place on you, reader—let's remain honest. I loathe you, I despise you, I want to watch you burn. But I will not lie to you tonight; it is snowing, and it is going to snow. The end is the beginning and our corpses will litter the streets. You and I are so alone on this earth, isolated in our own worlds. The writer and the reader share a bond of sorts—we share a single moment of truth. Though I have never seen you, will never meet you, I know you more than anyone on this earth.

You must notice that this is no longer a narration. This was never a diary and I never meant it to be a diary. I do not know why I began this story, and I still don't know why I write it, but the story has changed halfway through. Why do you want to hear about my life, dear reader, as you grasp this book between your scraped and bleeding hands? There is nothing in my life worth mentioning—this diary is a waste of your time, and a waste of mine.

That, I suppose is my reasoning behind ending the dull narration of my life. I hope you burn this story once you are finished flipping through the pages, because in the end, that's what it deserves—it deserves to be burned like so many photographs, movies, and pictures. What makes this book so different from all of those things which humanity has destroyed for perhaps a lesser cause? Is your world falling apart as mine is? Are your cities collapsing and is your government useless as the world continues to burn around you? Are you about to die for a cause you never believed in? Shinigami, Kira, this world is full of so many petty causes….

I don't believe in empathy, just as I do not believe I am writing to some higher omniscient power. How long do you have left as you freeze to death in the streets as a poor orphan ready to picked up by a pair of Shinigami Servants? Good luck to you, my friend, and don't believe a word they say. The world is full of lies.

We live on our lies—I know that I live on mine. Because how could we stand the sight of our own reflections, how could we survive with a sight so monstrous as that? Truth will kill us all, so lie to yourself, lie to others, survive. I will say the truth for you.

You are going to die, I am going to die, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. We men are but the faded ink in a book left to sea, our lives as meaningless and illegible as the ink that runs off of these pages. And you read this and laugh at my conclusions—melodramatic, you call me…

Laugh all you want. One of us has to be the liar, after all.

And so I bid you adieu, dear reader, and pray we never meet face to face. Will I continue my narration? Will I write again? I don't know, I really don't….

The end is far whiter than I expected.

* * *

"So roll call, yeah, why the heck am I doing roll call? Anyone know? No? Maybe it's because of that one time where I went to band camp…. Wait… I didn't go to band camp; I don't even play an instrument. Instruments of torture are a different story—Nero was nothing with the fiddle compared to me. God, my violin teacher wanted to kill me…. Or they would have if I actually took violin lessons. I was born a poor orphan, you see, and everyone hated me and no one gave me the money for a violin. I played a garbage can instead…. I still don't know how that works, but it did! What was I even talking about?"

Light Yagami, despite being horribly depressed and somewhat out of it, decided he wasn't missing anything due to the fact that everyone else looked just as confused. They all stood, mouths hanging far below their mask lines, eyes twitching, staring at the red-headed intelligence officer in more than mild confusion. He appeared to have a fascination with his own voice—or he feared awkward silences and had the constant need to monologue. When Light had first seen him, he had sworn his eyes were red—but that must have been a trick of the light….

Real devils didn't monologue people to death…. That would be somewhat anticlimatic… and torturous….

"Right, roll call. Well, I'm Nathanial—um, Hans, and I'm the intelligence officer. At least, that's what the list said… I think. You see there's this whole debate on whether I need glasses or not, and that all my life all the printed world I've just made up to cover-up the fact that I actually can't make out a word of this… all subconsciously, of course. Yes, it's confusing, I know, but still, the paranoia—I can't escape it; it's everywhere. The doctors said I might have a problem, and I don't know if I agree with them. This is why they thought I was mentally unstable. Or at least, maybe I thought they thought I was mentally unstable. Maybe I'm schizophrenic and made the whole thing up. OH MY GOD, THE PRESSURE, IT'S RUINING MY MIND!" The man was suddenly interrupted when the cook walked forward and slapped him across the face. He blinked a few times before raising his head and then falling backwards.

"So, that was Hans…. I think we knocked him out…. I hope he doesn't wake up." The cook kicked his unconscious body a few times before shrugging and lifting her left hand in a slight wave. "I'm Catherine Borelle. I cook, but they say I run communications, despite the fact that they didn't actually send me to military training, or teach me how to use a radio. Hans here will be doing it for me while I poison… I mean, serve you."

No one laughed.

"Right, well, I'm Naomi Penber, and I honestly thought I wouldn't be shipped off to girl-scout camp when I signed up for military service. Good to know I was wrong." Naomi Penber looked to be one of the oldest members of the A team, being about mid-to-late twenties with a deadpan expression and long black hair that covered about half of her mask. Light found that to be a bit unnecessary, as her face was already covered, but didn't remark on it.

"My name really is Catherine Borelle." The cook's eyes darted between the various task members, ignoring the fact that none of them appeared even partly interested in the meeting.

Naomi just silently deadpanned in Catherine's direction, looking almost as bored as Light felt—but Light didn't think that was possible.

"You were thinking it, but it is Catherine, so there."

Light was beginning to wonder why everyone had such bizarre hair. The cook's hair looked like a pinned mass of light-orange yarn; the man lying on the ground's hair looked like a bleeding artery…. Was Light the only one with a decent haircut?

"Goddamn Yankee. Well, my name is Matt and I'm the assistant weapons officer, but the other guy ditched and left me to do the shit. Bastard." Matt looked as if he were fourteen—possibly younger, if one were to judge by his height and fashion sense. Dressed in a fur vest, rubber gloves, a pair of green goggles, and hiking boots, Light wasn't sorry he had taken the time to knock a few brain cells out of his head. Even while standing in the semi-circle in the middle of camp, his fingers still moved expertly between the buttons on his video game console. Everyone wondered vaguely how he had ever managed to become a soldier, much less wormed his way into getting shipped off for special ops.

"Mogi. Team Sergeant." Mogi appeared to be a cross between a boulder and a human—his birth had no doubt involved some painful transformation sequence, a handful of mad scientists, and plenty of radioactivity. He appeared as social and as interesting as his brick-like appearance would indicate, and was dutifully ignored by the conscious members of the task force.

"My name is Marcus, and I also happen to be a Goddamn Yankee. I am your medical officer and am not qualified to so much as touch a Band-Aid… pray you don't need stitches." He looked as if he were enjoying a pleasant hangover; his eyes weren't focused and his hair looked as if it had been run over by a lawn mower. The apathetic, slightly out-of-it set of his jaw seemed to say he would rather be a homeless bum than a dog of the military. He offered no cheap smiles or waves after he was done speaking, but simply stood and enjoyed his hangover—or at least, that's how it appeared.

"Hi. I'm Chuck Norris."

Marcus and Catherine's heads whipped around. They both blinked profusely before the cook began to burst into a fit of laughter and fell on top of the probably/preferably-dead intelligence officer. Marcus shook his head in disbelief before schooling his emotions and reappearing as the living zombie. 'Chuck Norris,' as he was called, looked about the group as if searching for some applause, but was only greeted by blank stares and Catherine's hearty laughter.

"That's not funny," interjected Naomi as the laughter began to reach a crescendo and the staring continued strong.

"Well, er, you can call me Matsuda, and I'm the assistant engineer…. But the other engineer guy didn't show up, I guess, so it's just me. Yay." He held up his hands in mock celebration and was met by everyone else looking bored, tired, and not amused.

Light blinked a few times before sighing and commencing to speak—really, he preferred his mock insanity. "Light Yagami—your captain, incidentally—and I have to add that I don't care what you call yourselves. To me you are all the same. I will not learn your names, I will not become your friend, and I will not break my word." He stopped talking, noticing the way Matsuda gaped at him, and how Mogi had shifted slightly (almost immeasurably, but Light noticed it all the same).

It was almost disconcerting—rational Light said it was nothing but paranoia, but irrational Light said they were Martians bent on dissecting his brain and leaving his body in a middle of a battlefield where none would be the wiser. Light felt obliged to listen to his rational side; lately, the irrational Light Yagami had managed to grab so much power, he had no idea what to do with it. He assumed it was the whole problem with the dog and the car: Irrational Light just didn't know what to do with himself, and therefore, rational Light also could not decide upon a course of action. "Right, and dog tags. Apparently, they thought it would be amusing to give us dog tags. I consider it mildly degrading, but have fun."

Dropping the bag of dog tags at the group's feet, he felt his mind wander to his broken pedestal, wondering if, like the tower of Babel, it were ever to be rebuilt. At the time, it seemed like a decided no. The marble pillars were in shambles, broken into giant sections, leaving Light staring to wonder just what knocked it over in the first place. A well-placed insult? He didn't think so. Perhaps it had been unstable in the beginning, but to destroy such a well-crafted monument would take more than an insult. What was it that had caused him to fall, no… jump? A silver dog tag was glittering in his hand; he barely registered it as his mind searched inward in curiosity.

A little self-inflection couldn't harm him; a little reconstruction could hardly do much harm… and yet he found that despite the blood he was drowning in, the view wasn't as horrific as he had previously thought. There was something almost gruesomely beautiful in his surroundings… gothic, perhaps?

Yes, why not. Light smiled at his settlement on the word and pocketed the silver dog tag. He made his way back towards his own quarters with a smile painted below his mask, visible to the world, while his mind worked behind yet another set of masks—one that could hide his own construction, whether he built another tower of Babel or not.

* * *

**Scourge's Note**: Well, that was surreal. And ridiculous. But we like it.


	27. Some Animals Are More Equal than Others

**BUT SOME ANIMALS ARE MORE EQUAL THAN OTHERS**

Dreams are not enough to win a war  
Out here they're always keeping score  
Beneath the tan the battle rages  
Smile a rented smile, fill someone's glass  
Kiss someone's wife, kiss someone's ass  
We do whatever pays the wages

_-Sunset Boulevard, Don Black_

Catherine chopped the vegetables with disdain. Vegetables were so boring but… it was too cold for her to think of anything else. She had to wear gloves in her own kitchen because she was afraid she'd chop off one of her fingers (and probably not even notice until blood got into the food) if she didn't. But she didn't dare abandon her knives because of a small amount of snowfall.

She remembered when the streets were covered with ice, when she could see her own breath as she walked mask-less to school, her birth face uncovered for the world to see. But that was in another country, on another continent, and she hadn't been holding her knives back then.

She beheaded each vegetable with care, making sure that they were successfully decapitated before moving to the next one, seething over her gloved hands and the cold weather. Catherine was fine with cold so long as she didn't need gloves to survive in it. Catherine hated gloves.

She noticed how Light Yagami looked indifferently at her vegetables while he stood in front of her, his gray army uniform wrinkled and un-tucked, causing Catherine's eyes to wander from her victimized vegetables. He had been standing there for over half an hour; Catherine couldn't help but notice how still he was, how not even his eyes seemed to move as he stared straight at her. He didn't say why he was there, or when he was leaving. He had become a statue, and Catherine was fascinated by its stillness.

"No radio," is what everyone else said; Light Yagami said nothing. Light Yagami, who had explained the meaning and spelling of his name for all the world to hear, said nothing. He went step by step in a lecture on how to successfully spell and pronounce his name. Plus, he threw in the meaning for free. Moon night-god—now there was someone with an ego.

Catherine remembered smiling as she watched his insistence that they either call him Yagami-san or Night-god because he would tolerate no pseudonyms—unlike a certain Hans, better known as Nathanial. She remembered the fire stoked in his eyes as he stared them all down individually, pronouncing each foreign syllable after the other. Even the Japanese members looked slightly confused, but Catherine was in awe of his name.

"If I had known I was meeting God, I would have worn my good shoes." Naomi Penber had not been impressed, following up by spelling out the kanji for her own name with the same precision and accuracy, but with a hint of mockery—where Light had been dead serious. Everyone else seemed too confused, or too irritated, to follow up and had left it at that.

Light Yagami had pointed out that it was technically illegal for women to join special operations groups and that if she got pregnant, he was within his rights to strand her and the unborn fetus in the middle of Kira's encampment. She had replied by saying he himself was more likely to get pregnant than she was. Catherine had stopped paying attention after that, her own eyes and mind still fixated on the captain with the golden eyes that burned like the fires in a kitchen's oven.

And so he stood in Catherine's kitchen, waiting for orders, waiting to strike while it kept snowing. And Catherine was just as patient as he was, enjoying the sight of her own personal statue of the man with ovens for eyes.

* * *

"So it's agreed, then. Light Yagami is officially more insane than I am. The doctors said that wasn't possible, but it appears they were wrong. I think we should turn him in for the reward—he has to be some sort of medical phenomenon." Nathanial turned towards the empty tent and sighed, wishing that for once someone would actually listen to his monologues. Leave a team of monkeys in a room and they're bound to write the next great American novel eventually…. Someday, Nathanial would spew something profound and no one would be there to hear it.

"Of course, as always, we turns to me, which turns to I, which in turn becomes my external monologue. Oh, cruel and powerful god of punishment, how you choose to mock me! Poor friendless orphan that I am, I think you're laughing. Well, I can't say that I'm not, either." Nathanial tapped his fingers against the table sitting in his tent, peering in vain at the communications radio and attempting to remember how to use it without causing some catastrophe. He was failing, miserably.

"Ah, you notice the fact that I have no idea what I'm doing; I did, too. They told me to work with the radio and try to get a signal. No signal. It's a blizzard out there in the middle of Spring…. I know, it makes no sense. 'Nathanial, Hans, whatever your name is, go work the blasted radio!' and here's the radio and here's me." Nathanial smiled, thinking of the audience that he wasn't actually performing for. The irony is what kept him moving kept him going, kept him laughing. And besides, he enjoyed the show that was his life, his mind, and his lacking sanity.

"I named him Humphrey." Nathanial whacked the radio with his left hand listening to it beep and clank in protest. "He's very stubborn and doesn't appear to like me; frankly, I don't blame him. He only responds when you address him as Sir Humphrey, and even then, he only turns on to tell you communications are down and we're stuck in the middle of a blizzard. Lamentable. Humphrey, I ask you, why?"

The radio said nothing in reply, but Nathanial had the brief idea that it was giving him the cold shoulder. Well, Nathanial already had one of those; he didn't need a second one. He shivered, rubbing his gloved hands together as he looked out at the snow (yes, it really was snowing in the middle of Spring) in dismay.

"It's been five days and I still have nothing. I smell mutiny. I might be their first victim to sacrifice to Humphrey if I don't move any faster. But I swear, until this snow clears up, we're stuck with nothing. All we can do is sit around and wait. I told them—didn't I tell them, Humphrey?" Humphrey didn't respond. "Well, I did tell them, but they don't listen. Especially the nicotine brat, what's-his-name—Matt, or something…. I wasn't really paying attention, or was I unconscious? I can't remember… this is somewhat irritating…." He frowned, racking his memory then shaking his head in vain and staring at the computer once more in dismay. His head pounded against the table a few times before he eventually just left it there and stared at his boots.

"Five days and I have nothing. You know, they used to call me a genius. I went to an orphanage for the gifted, actually…. Apparently, I wasn't the kind of gifted they wanted. You see, there are two types of people in this world: The kind that puts people into two groups, and the kind that does not. I am the latter category and therefore did not view myself as being in a gifted group of any kind. I was… am… only talented at destroying things. And everyone knows it. Or they will soon enough, once Humphrey here becomes the first radio to die of a heart attack."

Humphrey looked somewhat irritated. Nathanial felt the same.

"Believe me, it is possible. I just wish this damn snow would clear up so I could feel my fingers again. Ack, I think I might have frost-bite; they're looking a bit purple…. Or maybe that's just the gloves…." He spread his fingers experimentally, moving each one individually. "False alarm, folks. Nothing but another false alarm. This is going to drive me mad."

Madness: Another form of sanity….

What was sanity supposed to be, anyway? It was an ambiguity, one that Nathanial had never been able to comprehend. Sanity was everything Nathanial wasn't, everything he was told he should be—what was sanity to him? None of them were sane anymore; the war had changed that, along with the masks and Kira. Both sanity and God had gone away… on the first train they could find heading for the coast.

"Perhaps _I _was sanity all along. The answer was not right in front of me… I was the answer all along. Yes, Humphrey, I know that makes no sense, but a lot of things make no sense. Sanity makes no sense, I make no sense—so clearly, I am sanity. Look at it this way… would you rather have me or Light Yagami be sanity?"

The radio beeped once or twice in response before falling silent. Nathanial nodded his head in assent before continuing his speech. "That's what I thought. Now let's get back to the point, which is… I'm going to freeze to death if this weather does not clear up. I am definitely going to lose some fingers. I hope that hoodlum—Matt—loses his middle finger—I'm tired of seeing it everywhere I turn."

The tent flap opened and the dark-haired, rather dogmatic-looking woman entered. Nathanial blinked and shifted, instantly aware of his own red hair—which looked as if someone had set it on fire and reminded five year olds of Disney's The Little Mermaid—and his pale, translucent skin that belonged on an ice-sculpture, and not an actual living being. She brushed the snow off of her gray jacket (the army had eventually decided on the color gray because it was cheap and no one really liked it, so no country could take full credit) then walked towards the table where Nathanial's tools were scattered haphazardly and took a seat.

"As you can see, production is… how do you say in English…. Not so good." Nathanial shifted, aware of the crudely-made stools they sat upon, and how they could fall apart at any second. Somehow, no one had thought to bring chairs to the camp, meaning that Nathanial had to build his own.

Nathanial wasn't a carpenter. The last thing he built was a bird house that ended up killing all the birds that entered and a pedestrian who happened to walk underneath. He hoped the stools were slightly better quality, but he doubted it.

"The captain's getting impatient; I don't think he'll wait much longer. If you don't do your job, he'll do it for you." Naomi's personality seemed, to Nathanial, to be as stiff as the long black hair that fell down her back. It was a part of her charm, he decided. Her complete lack of eccentricities made her the least and most interesting member of the special operations unit. Or so Nathanial thought—he probably had a better view of her, since she was the only person who hadn't threatened to kill him.

Yet….

"That's all? I was expecting to be marooned on a desert island in the middle of Russia." Sarcasm had always been Nathanial's friend—one of his only, to be exact—and he felt that it also lent itself to his charm. If he had any charm, which he didn't….

"Granted, he'll do that as well; I'd get working on that radio if I were you." She didn't smile. She had literally no sense of humor—or if she did, it wasn't nearly as blatant as Nathanial's own. It was strangely fascinating….

Humphrey beeped twice as if to remind them of his presence, and Nathanial inwardly cursed. Really, the thing only began responding at the worst times. The bastard was doing it on purpose—Nathanial was sure of it. Nathanial sighed before picking up his screwdriver between gloved fingers and working at Humphrey's screws, performing an autopsy once again.

"You know, I'm not God. I can't resurrect the dead, and I'm afraid your radio here is not mostly dead—he is absolutely positively dead, dead, dead." He shook at the innards of the radio once again, inspecting and replacing the batteries, checking whatever circuitry lay inside before placing it back together and praying it worked. How could anyone expect to survive an autopsy?

"It's been five days. It is freezing, and someone is going to murder you in your sleep if you don't fix this thing within the next five seconds." She was very blunt, very dark—and altogether, she matched her appearance. She frightened him, sometimes, with the bluntness, but it also was fascinating….

"Oh, Mistress of Fate, hear my plea! Help the world to find its sanity, namely by restoring this radio, whom I have dubbed Humphrey, back to his original vigor!" Nathanial raised his hands dramatically, shouting up to the heavens and falling to the ground on his knees. Penber's reaction was priceless; if only he could see past her mask to see the true expression on her face. Probably confusion mixed with scorn and a pinch of shock.

"You, Nathanial, Hans, whatever you call yourself—are a dead man."

Yes, Naomi Penber was very blunt.

Nathanial was just about to stand when Humphrey managed to sputter into life. Granted, he looked as if he had just come out of a coma (or a stroke), and filled the world with incoherent static and a faint yellowish glow. Still, the radio worked, and Nathanial was flabbergasted.

No, more than flabbergasted… he was sure he was going to have a heart attack due to shock. Nothing he did ever worked—he swore he had killed off Humphrey long ago…. He remained on his knees, his mouth open in shock as he reevaluated his religious beliefs.

"Congratulations. I'll go tell everyone so they won't sneak into your room tonight." She smiled her enigmatic smile before standing and walking back into the blizzard from whence she came. Nathanial looked back to the radio, then to the tent's exit, then back to the radio.

"It appears I now worship a Mistress called Fate. Dammit, I don't even like Fate."

* * *

"Hello? My name is Nathanial—well I'm enlisted as Hans. It's a long story…. Yes, and I was wondering if there are any orders for our military unit. Hello? Is anyone even there? No? Well then…. This is awkward…. I should hang up…. But I don't want to." Nathanial bit his lip and deliberated for twelve or so seconds before sighing and ending communications with the base. They must have been on vacation…. Did they take vacations in the army?

"You have twenty-four hours before I slit your throat."

How was that voice so familiar in such a short amount of time? Nathanial cringed and turned to see Light Yagami glaring down at him like some disapproving god. Perhaps 'Night God' did fit him, after all—and it wasn't a matter of self-confidence. The young man's shadow was dark and menacing, and for once in his life, Nathanial was sure that his terror wasn't because of his paranoia. Light Yagami could kill him if he wanted to, and it looked Light Yagami did very much want to.

"I figured. First I fix the radio—hallelujah. But then no one is there to answer…. Perhaps they were bombed and the war is actually over and we're just stranded here and no one knows. We'll freeze to death out here; they'll find our corpses and wonder why we had to eat each other alive. Ew, Matt is going to taste horrible… is it worth it? Yes, no, maybe. Help me, Fate!" Nathanial turned to see Light staring down like death himself—only Nathanial supposed death wore more black and had less of an Asian-tan…. But still, the metaphor was clear enough.

"It took you five days to get it running; it's been three days since then…. They can't have abandoned their post for so long. That being said, if you don't get contact by tomorrow, I will _kill_ you. Do I make myself perfectly clear?" Where was Kira when you needed his almighty judgment? Where was the justice? Obviously, justice was not in Russia, or Siberia, or wherever the hell they were camped.

"Aye aye, captain-san!" Nathanial raised his left hand hastily in a salute, then remembered it was supposed to be the right hand and switched. The fluster of actions caused him to fall off his wobbling stool and onto the ground. He blinked once, twice, three times before groaning and rubbing his side.

"Let's hope your skills as an Intelligence officer are more useful than your skills of balance." And suddenly the great shadow was gone. Nathanial could breathe again—Light Yagami frightened all of Nathanial's wits out of his head.

Going over his lessons in pronunciation once more, Nathanial shook his head and tried to stand up. "R-a-i-t-o, and Bingo was his name-oh!"

* * *

**Scourge's Note: **Long time no see, folks. At any rate, feel free to review. Things are rather light-hearted now (bahaha), but will taking a rapid spin for the worse in... however many chapters. I've decided to stop trying to count things, because I seem to have lost all basic math skills upon my introduction to calculus. American educational system be damned...


	28. The Merry Go Round of Life

**THE MERRY-GO-ROUND OF LIFE**

Eleanor Rigby picks up the rice in the church where a wedding has been  
Lives in a dream  
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door  
Who is it for?

_-Eleanor Rigby, The Beatles_

"The hell do you mean, we still don't have communications? Fuck, it's freezing out here. Aren't we supposed to kill people in the army and not sit around like fucking lapdogs?" The fourteen-year-old boy held a cigarette loosely between his gloved fingers, playing his video game one-handed as he attempted to multi-task by making terrible conversation. Nobody really liked Matt—to them, he was just some drugged-up little kid who had the nerve to tell them they were idiots. Light Yagami's ego was one thing; Matt's was quite another. At least with Light Yagami, one had to admit to himself that he did deserve the pride he possessed. Matt, not so much.

No one spoke. Marcus took another swig of cheap wine while Mogi impersonated a rock. They sat, tapping their fingers against the table wondering if they should be trying to entertain themselves through poker, but then deciding against it. Instead, they decided to remain seated and stare at each other in a desperate attempt to ignore the red-headed gamer, with no apparent success.

"So what the fuck is wrong with you two? You guys mute or something? Jesus, everyone in this place has fucking issues." The noises from the boy's video game were heightened by the painful silence that dominated the tent's innards (although their surroundings were, in and of themselves, rather loud—the wind howled rather nastily). Marcus' eye began to twitch as he tried to resist the urge to turn and slap the child.

"And the hell is wrong with captain-self-proclaimed-god? Can't he do shit? Am I the only competent person in this entire fucking country?" Marcus felt his hand begin to clench under the table, but he resisted yet again and took another swig of the cheap, disgusting wine. Mogi was having a slightly easier time despite the fact that he also hated Matt's guts; he merely didn't have the drive to get up and do something about it. Mogi was much happier pretending he was a part of the tent's walls… or a rock….

Matt continued to drone on for quite a while, ignoring the two older men just as they tried and failed to ignore him. It was as if he had no social skills and talked to fill up silence—but in a way, that was possibly more annoying than Nathanial. Matt was more conceited in the way he filled up the gaps between dialogues.

Finally, Marcus ran out of wine and set down the glass carefully, not feeling nearly drunk enough to be depressed, or sober enough to walk away. He turned with an evil eye aimed for the boy with the dark-green goggles. His battered fists clenched as he prepared to knock the child's brains out of his head.

"Your parents must hate you," he said through clenched teeth before throwing his empty wine-bottle at the boy's head. He grimaced at the sight of the broken glass at the boy's feet before adding, "You aren't worth a full wine bottle; I'm not even sure you're worth an empty one."

The vandals had gone after his daughter and beat her to death; if only Matt had been his son instead. Then, perhaps, the vagabonds would have done some good in the world after all. Maybe Matt would grow up to be a journalist; Marcus truly hoped that would be the case. Maybe then the idiots would pick the right target.

* * *

"Captain Yagami, sir." Naomi Penber felt she was the only one who addressed Light Yagami with his full title. She knew she was the only one, and as she watched the young man twist in his seat to stare at her with annoyed confusion, she didn't feel appreciated. The few amounts of furniture the camp did have had their way to the captain's quarters—two chairs… a cheap card table. Obviously, the army hadn't felt the need to pamper any of them.

"What do you want?" He was often rude and to the point in conversation, but sometimes Naomi swore she could hear something brilliant behind his words, and would try to seek it out before it disappeared. Naomi didn't necessarily like Light Yagami, but after a few weeks of waiting for news, she could at least come to respect him.

"Nathanial thinks he might have actual communication." Naomi watched as Light snapped to attention, jumping to his feet wide-awake, when seconds before he had been lounging and looking ready to fall asleep. His eyes always seemed to be burning behind his dark lashes, ready to consume the world at the right words of inspiration. Light was grinning and Naomi swore she could hear him laughing; she said nothing, but stood at attention, ready for her orders.

"You know, Penber-san I think I like you. Nathanial, too, has grown higher on my list."

Naomi bleakly wondered how long that statement would remain true, and how long it would remain mutual. By the twist of the captain's mouth, she judged that it would not be too long before all hell broke loose.

But that was why Naomi had joined the army—she had wanted an adventure.

* * *

"Yes, well, when I said 'communications,' I meant that they spoke to me, once." Nathanial rubbed the back of his head as he looked at both his pseudo Angel of Death and the black-haired woman that seemed to constantly spy on his progress. She seemed to be both a good and bad luck charm—she got Humphrey going, but she also brought the Grim Reaper with her, and that was not good. Light Yagami terrified Nathanial.

He continued in vain, all the while aware of the guillotine's blade hanging above his neck. "In some bizarre dialect of Hindi, with his mouth full at that. I couldn't make out much of the accent, but I did manage to translate…. You won't like it. I don't even like it."

Marooned in the middle of nowhere looked nice compared to what he imagined they'd do to him after they found out what happened. He sent his prayers up to Fate, hoping he wasn't as fluent with Hindi as he thought. If it was a mistranslation, he might just lose a limb, or a hand—he could live as a cripple… but living as a dead man didn't sound particularly easy.

"What am I not going to like?" asked Light Yagami, the dead expression returning to his eyes. Nathanial wondered what kind of a world had created the monster that was Light Yagami. What kind of a demon whispered behind those dead eyes? Nathanial felt himself laughing when he was alone, thinking of what kind of insanity lived within the captain's mind. The world was a cruel place and could do terrible things.

"What kind of a demon has eaten your heart—is it greed, lust, pride? Or is it something darker? Revenge, perhaps? And what does it whisper in the middle of the night when none but you can hear it, when the ticking of the clock keeps rhythm in its song… what does it ask you for?" Nathanial felt his mind darken from its usual course of sarcasm, analyzing the hidden mask of his captain with morbid curiosity; he smiled, then frowned again.

But his thoughts kept flying and Nathanial wondered if he had ever learned tact. He decided he had not. But he didn't care; destroying dreams was too much fun. "And what would that demon do if it found out that the army wants us to do… nothing."

Light Yagami was shaking. His hands were trembling beneath his gloves, and Nathanial could feel the rage and desperation rising out of him, ready to kill someone. Nathanial was smiling, grinning—perhaps this was why they had thought Nathanial was gifted….

"Sir?" Naomi was eyeing Nathanial in mistrust, her dark eyes piercing his own as she surveyed his power struggle from a distance, safe from the wrath of the disappointed Night God. Nathanial held a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. Silence would keep her from the needles of Fate and the jaws of the God of Darkness.

"So what will you do now, Night God? What will you do now that the world has denied you?"

Light Yagami was falling in on himself; his masks were falling apart and his eyes were blazing. And yet he did not strike, he did not move to hit. Instead, he moved away from both Nathanial and his black-haired shadow, and off into the rest of the camp, marching off towards his own tent where he could curse the gods in private. Nathanial snorted before turning back to the radio with a faint smile.

"Am I allowed to ask what you thought you would accomplish by provoking him?" It was as if she called from a world beyond the one Nathanial had been inhabiting. He felt his eyes search for her and he turned slowly, blankly, his mind still wandering dark corners.

"You really don't know him at all, do you, Naomi?" Nathanial paused as if to wait for her answer, but she said nothing, so he continued. "He is much darker than you think. You can see it in his eyes."

She stood still and silent, a statue in her own regards before she nodded slightly and walked out of his tent. Once again, Nathanial was alone with his musings and murderous thoughts. His lips were still quirked into a smile as he raised his hands above his head and sighed. In the end, he was always alone.

* * *

"I took French in High-School." Catherine shrugged as she watched Light Yagami pace about her kitchen, murder written in his oven-eyes. It was the most she had ever seen him move, and now he moved furiously—as if with each step he took, his panic grew so that it was looming above even Catherine, a giant mass of feeling.

"Hindi, a rare dialect of Hindi. He didn't lie, Goddamn him. It is the Tower of Babel and I don't know Hindi." Light paused in his march across the kitchen tent; his head lowered as he began to laugh. "I underestimated him; he's better than I thought. Hindi… heh."

Light Yagami was fascinating. His mood swings made him all the more interesting; the captain would never be boring. Catherine rolled the dough in her hands as she watched his moods control him, like some distorted puppet hanging from rotting strings. Her fingers itched to touch his strings and see if he would jerk as violently as she hoped.

"Get the team together. Tell them to look up translations in Hindi for our message. I refuse to believe him… I won't lose my soul to a man who can't even take the care to look after his own appearance."

But someone could steal his strings, a broken, dangling puppet.

* * *

"Hey, asshole, I found your translation." Matt raised his hand as Light Yagami walked by him. The captain cringed, but turned towards the boy anyway.

"Yes, Matt?" Light Yagami surveyed the child with distaste; he could smell the tobacco on his breath and the alcohol spilled on his clothes. Light Yagami deserved no badge of honor, but Matt did not even deserve to wear a uniform. No fourteen-year-old should place himself in hell with his own will.

"I found this on You-tube and it sounded close enough to your translation." The boy coughed in his arm before continuing. "May he poop on my knee? May he poop on my knee? May he…"

"You aren't getting anymore food. Catherine already wants an excuse to starve you; I've decided not to interfere with her plans. Good luck surviving through the summer, private."

Nathanial waved from inside his tent while Light walked by, grinding his teeth as he attempted in vain to find his translation. Damn Hindi.

* * *

"No, sir, I do not speak Hindi." Naomi Penber watched with indifference as her captain stared her down with malignant eyes ready to burn holes in her brain. Beneath her mask, she raised an eyebrow and watched as he leaned in closer, attempting invade her personal space.

"What?" he asked simply—one word to clarify her answer.

"I speak Japanese, English, Chinese, and small amounts of French. Hindi, I'm afraid, is quite beyond me." She smiled thinly, returning her attention to the book she had been trying to read before her captain had demanded her undivided attention.

"Someone here must speak Hindi besides that bastard. I refuse to believe anything else."

Stubborn, prideful, and clearly mad, Naomi felt she should ignore Light Yagami until he came in a better mood, demanding something less trivial than making her learn Hindi.

"Good luck, captain. Godspeed." She flipped the page of her book, pretending to be unaware of the grinding sound his teeth made as he exited her tent.

* * *

By the time he reached Marcus and Mogi, Light Yagami was positive someone was going to die. They were going to die very painfully, as well.

"No," answered Mogi briefly before reverting to his usual boulder-like state.

"I wasted my high-school career on Spanish." Marcus paused, then took another swig of cheap cooler wine, ignoring the way Light seemed to burn a hole through the wall with his glare.

Light wished he had been born with the sense to learn Hindi when he still had the chance.

* * *

"Score one for Nathanial!" Nathanial raised his hands in exuberance as he danced around his tent at the sound of shouting from around the camp. Why he considered himself in competition with Light Yagami, he wasn't quite sure. Perhaps it was the fact that the good captain thought he was perfect, and Nathanial hated the needlessly conceited.

Nathanial had a philosophy against perfection, compassion, and virtually everything politically correct—but that was beside the point. The point was, Light Yagami was trying to prove him wrong (well, if you put aside compassion and politically correct), and it was driving Nathanial mad.

Besides it was obvious Light didn't like him, so therefore, he felt as if he shouldn't have to waste his time liking Light. But still… seeing him curse and whine was strangely interesting. It caused Nathanial to jump for joy and praise the mistress Fate, doing a little dance as he did so. If that wasn't an amiable reaction, he wasn't sure what was….

He needed some coffee.

* * *

"They told us to do nothing," asked the commander, his weary eyes closed shut as he ignored the intelligence officer who tampered delicately with the stubborn radio, easing the metal beast into life.

"Not quite. They didn't even know we were deployed to the area. You see, this is Russian and Hindi territory, not Japanese and definitely not American. This is the main front, and we're, well, they don't know quite what to do with us. And just today they told us our grand mission." Nathanial turned and smiled, sarcasm gleaming within the depths of his maroon eyes (Light wasn't sure what color to call them without coming up with something ridiculous).

"I'm not going to like it, am I?" Light knew he wasn't going to like it; he didn't even have to look to know he wasn't going to like it. Light hardly liked anything—why should the military be any different.

"They told us to go out and pump Kira-worshippers' bodies full of lead." Nathanial was grinning—he was grinning at this, as if Light's anger only served to amuse him and his bizarre sense of humor. One day, Light Yagami would kill that laughing, red-headed man. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

"That's it?" affirmed Light, ready to pound his head against a brick wall.

"In a basic translation, yes." Nathanial nodded while his gloved hands held the screwdriver loosely, ready to tear the poor radio apart. Light stood, stretched his limbs and prepared to depart—but before he left, he let out one final question.

"By the way, where did you learn Hindi?"

"Oh, well, I lived in Nepal for a few years… but that's not India… huh, you know, I can't really remember now…."

Light now knew it was best to ignore Nathanial, no matter how frighteningly unstable. The mood swing was forgotten and Light decided to get on with his life.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: Thanks to all our reviewers. –cough– Your kind words and encouragement are greatly appreciated. –cough– I'M NOT BITTER, OR ANYTHING.**

**Carni's Note: Yes, well, there's a delicate balance between being a review whore and having at least maybe one regular reviewer. It's nice to say, oh look someone actually read my fic as opposed to the usual 'I was just looking for LxLight and couldn't find any in this twenty some chapter fic!' which is what I'm assuming happened. **

**Scourge's Note: But she's not bitter, or anything.**

**That said, WEIRD STUFF IS GOING DOWN, NOW. You should tell us what you think, so we can… uh, think about what you think. Or something. XD Thanks to those of you who are at least reading this, whether you review or not. (But you'll get a larger slice of pie if you do the review thing.)**


	29. I'm in the Lord's Army

**I'M IN THE LORD'S ARMY**

Raping people of their hope  
and the sky of all its stars  
They're dying at your feet  
but 'who cares who they are?'  
(right?)  
There's no place like home  
It's like filling an empty glass from an empty bottle  
and it's stricken by rigor mortis  
with your hand on the throttle

_-An Apathetic New World, Protest the Hero_

It was the day Light burned the diary, or perhaps it was the day before, or the day after. He no longer cared about time. One day was just as good as any other day—why should he have to remember the sequence they came in? It was still cold outside, though not as cold as it had been; it wasn't snowing anymore and the atmosphere seemed somewhat brighter. It was the lightness of the mood that did it, that irritated him to the point of reminiscence, that drove him to engrave Misa's unfinished face onto the tent wall with a permanent marker.

He sat in his newly-refurbished tent, eyeing the wedding ring on his finger with distaste, remembering the wraith that he had married, the one who had deserted him to his loneliness. He did not remember much of her that day, when she walked out of his life so easily—he remembered the look of emptiness in her eyes, the contempt, but he did not remember with the clarity he should. It didn't matter, it shouldn't have mattered—and yet he found himself vaguely annoyed.

A golden band had somehow made its way around his finger, wrapped him tight in its false promises and lies. He did not know whether to blame her or not. He had to blame someone, and he was not sure if he believed in God. Who else could shoulder the blame for him?

"God, you monster." He had been cursing for days, violently opposing the deity who sought to ruin his life, to take everything away from him. The others had stared as he talked to God, but there was so much eccentricity that they found it normal, a quirk.

God was no quirk, God was no slip of the tongue—and staring at his contorted reflection in the golden band, he knew that was true. He had not been raving or cursing when he spoke those words against the monstrous being. Nathanial talked to Fate—why shouldn't Light Yagami have the luxury of talking to God? Why should he have been denied?

"You enjoy this, don't You? This ring of gold? It is my prison, you know, my last connection to humanity—isn't it? If I get rid of this, what am I? Am I human? Am I God? Or am I something worse…. Do I become worse than You?" He smiled. His humor returned with the thought of destroying the ring that bound him so tightly, the ring that had melted into prison bars, trapping him with the rotting vestiges of humanity—if only he could get rid of it.

His hand reached for the gun; he felt the puppet strings fraying away. The barrel was empty and the golden ring slid off his finger. A smile made its way across his face, maddened by the sense of helplessness, by the weight of the heavens pressing down upon him.

"God, this is my revenge. I weave my own tapestry, I make my own destiny, and You will decide nothing for me. I defy You as I have always defied You. Stop me if You dare. Watch me cast aside Your plans and Your fate—I don't believe in You." He loaded the barrel with the ring, pointing it ahead at a faceless portrait of the ghostly woman he had known, white and black hair concealing her pale features. He aimed carefully, precisely. He never missed, not when he was aiming for the kill.

* * *

Marcus stared at his captain in disbelief. Unconscious and bleeding, the man was lying on the operating table, mouth gaping, red dripping slowly from his split lips, dribbling across his torn face to splatter upon the surface below. Marcus tried to rationalize the situation. His hands were already covered in blood and he hadn't even touched the boy yet. (Because in reality Light was little more than a child, and it was only then, when he was lying on a cheap card table, so limp and pale that Marcus could see his youthful features hidden beneath the mask, that he could see it.)

Another hospital bed, the sound of a heart monitor, the nurses and doctors with eyes the color of hatred. Her breath giving out.

He hadn't attempted to operate yet, to remove the shards of metal from his face. All the while, the blood dripped from the boy's face and Marcus felt as useless as he had at his daughter's grave; the blood ran down from under the mask, and Marcus was so useless. He didn't know what to do, but the boy was blinking sluggishly, the pain recalling him from wherever he had been enduring.

The boy looked so much like his bleeding daughter, wasting away in that hospital bed, her eyes closed forever, the bruises decorating her skin like dark butterflies come to rest, the blood trickling from her wounds. The boy's eyes were glazed, the pain evident, a single question lost within their depths. Pity, even Marcus couldn't help but pity this boy.

He spoke slowly, his voice softer than Marcus had ever heard it—far from the commanding and arrogant voice of the captain Marcus remembered. "You aren't a doctor. You're using a pen knife…." He was laughing; his laughter consumed Marcus as he attempted to swallow down the pain contained in it. Too much for a boy, far too much for a man—who was this child on his operating table?

"No." Doctors' daughters didn't die unwanted in hospital beds; they weren't beaten to death in their own homes. Doctors weren't vermin. Not like Marcus.

"It's the mask, isn't it? It's the mask that's stopping you." The boy's hands rose to his face, fingers pressing against the wounds, becoming slickened with his own blood; he still dripped crimson, oozed with the measured beating of his heart. He faltered before dropping his blood-covered hands to his sides. "So take it off. You don't like me, anyway. No one likes me. Take it off, do the world a favor, Marcus—kill me, murder me… no one will blame you."

In a hospital long ago, there had been a doctor dressed in white. He blended in with the white walls, with the white floor, and with the patient's pale expression. His presence was distant, faded into the background, white upon white. And slowly but surely, his daughter's heart gave out, and the journalist was escorted with his corpse out the hospital door.

The vision of the dark-haired girl, his daughter's trembling breath, was wavering. All at once it began to fade—instead of that lonely child, that beautiful girl with the broken limbs and torn face, he was left staring into the golden eyes of the blood-stained mask.

The child in his mind was gone, the illusion was broken—Red Death stared from a broken mask, his eyes burning like fire. They could shut the world out, they could watch as their people died, but none escaped the mask of Red Death—none could escape his baleful eyes.

The blood poured down his face—scarlet rivers running down his neck, splattering across the ground. The golden eyes watched as Marcus retreated, pen-knife held in front of him as if it could ward off Death's blood-stained guise, as if it could save him. But those golden eyes followed with ease, locked upon his face, seeing past the fear and shame that resided there; Red Death held sway over all.

It laughed, skeleton jaw breaking open to allow the cackling voice freedom. The blood fell onto its tongue; crimson rain stained its teeth, washing its smile in red. And its eyes, they danced.

"You can't do it. I knew you couldn't—no one can kill me, not even God can kill me. You can't do it. You held that pen-knife as if you were so courageous, so daring, but you still can't do it. My world has been taken away from me piece by piece and I have nothing, and yet, I am immortal. I am immortal. God, do You hear this? You have made me immortal! Was that Your plan, was that my destiny all along?"

Death with his crimson mask glided forward, feet twisting in a parody of a waltz, blood-red hands grasping for the pen-knife. (Marcus was the doctor now, the one with the knife, the austere figurehead with the cold face and the unseeing eyes. And soon, he would be under the knife.)

"And what are you, Marcus? What are you in this tangled web, covered in my blood—my blood is on your hands. Who are you to wear my blood as if it were a liquid glove? You don't deserve to be covered in the blood of an immortal." A dove flied from his hand, feathers stained crimson as death. The skeleton sneered. "Wipe it off."

"Monster." Marcus' breath was heavier than the dove as it fell to earth, feathers clinging to the air. And before his feet it had transformed—the dove was no longer bleeding, for it was a rag, only a tattered rag.

"Monster? First I was human, then I was God, and now I am a monster? Make up your mind, human—what am I? Give me a name. Make up your mind and give me a name that sticks. I only need one; only a fool needs three. Give me my name, human—I dare you, give me my name!"

Red Death waited upon the table, silver instrument in his hand—his eyes… a ghastly inferno within their silver light. The fire howled around him, consuming his face, the skeletal façade. Only the eyes showed, the amber eyes of Red Death, set deep within the gaping black.

Marcus felt the soles of his feet turn to ash, unable to support him as he stood rooted to the earth. He was paralyzed. And yet, the golden-eyed death still waited, knife in hand. (He stopped for death, but death had not stopped for him.)

"Well, I'm waiting, human."

"I am no priest."

The golden eyes narrowed; the flames twisted, snapping at Marcus with gaping jaws. Its teeth sank into his flesh—the gloved fingers crushed against his neck, forcing venom through his veins. And through those golden-eyes it was a god who watched him, a god who turned his flesh to gold. A rat made of gold, forged at the hands of a god—and yet he was melting beneath this god's flames. His flesh was dripping away to lead, left to lie worthless at the god's feet.

"Light, let him alone."

The black-haired woman's voice halted the flames in their motions, froze them to ice and sent them shattering upon the ground below, scattered in the molten lead and left to rot alongside the white feathers of the forgotten dove.

"Why?" The fire writhed beneath the icy grasp, struggling to bring its head up, to burn once more. "Why should I let this one live?" With every word, the flames grew stronger, brighter. The demons howled once more; Red Death walked again.

"Don't waste your time, Light." The flames seemed to droop. "There will be other men to slaughter—men worth your time."

"Waste time? All I do is waste time. Look at us. What do you think we are doing here but wasting our lives away?" But the flames still flickered lower—they were little more than sputtering coals amidst gray ashes and grayer lead.

"Once, there was a time when I would have looked at myself and agreed with you. Such a waste, I would have said, to squander my golden years surrounded by men who cannot even succeed at ending their own lives. Yes, I would have called it a waste." To have seen her was to see the darkness of her hair, the way she hid herself—for she was little more than the face of the moon hiding in the darkness of its own masks. She waited in the shadows of herself, only a glimpse of the mask, her voice speaking from the darkness.

"But I realized something. Sitting in my apartment eating take-out Chinese food, I had no life to waste. I watched men get drunk just so I could say I was doing something with my time—alone and unemployed, I spent the last three years of my life watching other people get drunk for me. What were you doing that was so Goddamn important? How many drunken bar men did you watch stagger out of the pub at night? How many years have you been alone with nothing but the gun you kept hidden in a shoe box beneath your bed?"

With a sputter, the flames were snuffed completely. Red Death's eyes no longer burned; instead they shone dull and dark, wearier than their years, dank with the prospect of the future. The candle's flame was blown out, and nothing was left but the sliver of moonlight tumbling through the frigid air.

"So is this life, then? The act of waiting for revenge? I never realized before—how wrong I truly was. And here, here I thought I had it all figured out, thought that happiness was attainable—just not by the likes of me. It's a lie, isn't it? All of it, all they ever told us? They are such liars. Who among us would dare to call themselves happy?" The amber-eyed man's death grip loosened from Marcus' neck. His hands fell to his side. "Thank you. I'll remember this, Naomi. And when you do get your revenge, I hope it does make you happy—if only for a while."

Marcus' breathing came in shallow gasps; his chest heaved, his eyes rolled in his head. "How did you do it? He was going to kill me, he was going to kill me…." Voice panicked, struck through by disbelief, the rat dropped to his knees and sniveled. He shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have been bold—he should have fled, crawled beneath a rock and remained for weeks on end, just like the rat he was.

"I gave him better bait. He's after a journalist, not you. He knows that; he just pretends he doesn't. He wanted a reaction and you gave him one. If he wanted you to kill him, he would be dead. The fact that he's not proves something." She pulled Marcus onto his feet and patted him on the back. "He wants to live long enough to impale that journalist's heart with a pen. Now, come on, I have experience in watching men get drunk."

Journalist, well. That didn't make Marcus feel any safer.


	30. Thy Work Decay

**Scourge's Note: **Chapter thirty! Yay~ There was a time we thought this would be a hundred chapters in length. Then there was a time we thought this would be thirty-three chapters. It's neither, as you can probably guess. XD But thirty is still a landmark. (And I think we're at 75k words, now. :o) -ahem- On with it, though. We're trying to fix the formatting, which fanfiction's updates ate... Pretty sure I'm missing some of the scene breaks in the earlier chapters, but meh.

* * *

**THY WORK DECAY**

Forgive me,  
I have but two faces:  
One for the world,  
one for God.  
Save me

-_The Poet and the Pendulum, Nightwish_

Light Yagami was the child of the Shinigami crisis, Matsuda decided with Mogi as they drank themselves into oblivion. He was the bloodstained angel with a mad grin on his masked face, his laughter sounding like the funeral bells that had stopped ringing for even the greatest of men. He was the child of the disasters, the insane progeny of the gods of death—of the killing notebooks, of Kira and his people.

They knew as soon as he said his name—as soon as the words had left his lips, they knew. L had taught them to disregard coincidences; there were no coincidences. Fate was real, and she was merciless. Trust your instincts, even if they lead to your death, because they's better than nothing. That was what L had taught them in that investigation room as they stared at the gothic letter in awe and silence, watching him tear the world apart.

He was Soichiro Yagami's golden son, the object of his father's pride, a boy they had never seen but had heard of in fond tones from a father's loving voice. How much of that had been a lie? How far had he been from the truth? The bitterness in his eyes couldn't have been so newly founded; such hatred had deep roots. They couldn't imagine this boy ever being the golden child Soichiro had imagined.

Behind his mask sat a different one, made of a material far more devious than plastic. They wondered at the vision of their captain (for he was no longer Soichiro's son—how could he be Soichiro's son?), at the sight of his golden eyes and his eerie smile. He was monster created by a world filled with monsters, something to be feared and pitied, but never to be loved, never to be proud of.

He terrified them, and they knew it. Even as they drank and waited for him, waited to question him on the past that painted his eyes such a grim color, they were terrified of him. And then he walked in, covered in blood—blood dripping down his throat, staining his collar—a grin of madness on his face. There was horror in their eyes.

A vision of madness, the madness they had created, stained in human blood. He laughed, and it made them want to run back into the shadows and hide, hide as they had done all their lives, hide behind their masks and their morals. An angel of death, blood seeping down his soldier's garb… the madness spread like a disease.

"Light!" sputtered Matsuda, his eyes bulging out of his mask, the fear evident in his cry. The angel turned. His attention focused upon Matsuda, a spotlight bringing the paleness out of his mask and the glint of terror in his eyes.

Mogi was wiser. He said nothing, disappearing easily from the angel's vindictive gaze, slipping backwards into the background in a style that suited him. He watched the younger man in pity as the angel descended, the hatred burning away in his eyes like Icarus' melted wings.

"You're covered in blood!" Matsuda reverted to the obvious in a moment of panic; it was the easiest route when confronted with something beyond imagining. (They could not have dreamed this nightmare, they could not have imagined its bloodstained child, consumed by its shadows.) It was true, Mogi noted. The blood covered him. It tainted his mask and made its way down his pale throat as if it were made of rain.

The demon smiled. He laughed, delight in his twisted gaze. "Why yes, I believe I am. But it's not such a bad thing—it's only my blood, after all." He wore a jester's grin, painted upon his face, sculpted in his eyes, but so obviously false, so wrong that an amateur could see the flaws. It wasn't real, the happiness, the delight—there was nothing beneath it. A great chasm fell beneath the expression, daring the viewer to jump.

Matsuda stumbled on, ignoring the instinct of fight or flight, the desire to run. New topic, new idea. He clung to the first seed that sprouted. "Yagami, is that your real name? You wouldn't happen to be Soichiro Yagami's son, because we, Mogi and I, used to work with him back before this whole thing started…." Matsuda trailed off at the look in the madman's eyes. The fire of delight had diminished, leaving a cool hatred that burned far more thoroughly than any faked emotion. The iciness chilled Mogi to the bone.

"Soichiro Yagami has been dead for a long time, Matsuda." The bitterness returned to his expression; the chasm they had seen grew dark, still opening, becoming, but they no longer had a hope of seeing the bottom.

"We heard. We're very sorry for your loss." Matsuda seemed relieved, as if the darkness in the boy's expression was a substitute for sanity, for stability, something Matsuda could recognize and work with. Stable ground.

"I don't care if you're sorry, Matsuda. I don't care if anyone feels sorry for me. Go ahead and pity me—but I know something you don't know." The boy's smile returned, taunting, the smile of a murderer, a monster. "Can you guess what it is, Matsuda?"

Matsuda shook his head, the ground disappearing from under his feet; only the pit remained, dark and black watching him teeter over the edge. Trust your instincts. It was what kept them alive, it was what had kept them all alive, because their instincts were saner than they were.

"I can't die," he whispered, imparting the secrets of the world into their straining ears. Matsuda drew backwards at the serious tone, having the sense not to interrupt, not to put Light back into reality—for he was far from reality. The madness was dark beneath his eyes, and it brewed with the cravings of retribution it had never quite swallowed.

"You see this mask," he said, pointing to his bleeding face, the plastic mask torn in half across the middle and shorn by a golden bullet. "This isn't what's stopping your god from killing me, human. This isn't what stops men from killing me, what stops me from killing myself, even. No, nothing is stopping them—it's just another face, one more to be torn off at will by a God of Death. So if nothing is stopping them, why don't they? Why can't they kill me, why can't you kill me, why can't anyone kill me?"

Yes, Soichiro had been so blindingly mistaken when it came to the mad demon that possessed his son, the bitterness eating away at his soul. The way men were consumed by greed and pride, Light was consumed by his own anger and hatred. Mogi said nothing, backing away slowly; Matsuda began to stutter.

"Uh… Light? What are you talking about?" he asked, trying to pinpoint when their conversation had chosen to reveal Light's newly-thriving god complex.

"We're talking about how I don't care if you tell me my father is dead, or that my mother is dead, or my sister is dead, or that all the family I ever knew have fallen to dust. I don't care if you tell me I am going to die, or that you are going to die, or that we all are going to die—because you're wrong. I'm not going to die. I'm going to watch as the world collapses around me, but I will not die with it." His voice became quiet, musing to himself rather than to his audience, turning his attention from them long enough for Mogi to steal out of the room and for Matsuda to run after him out of the door.

"I'll be the one watching over your grave; I'll be your angel of death and your grim reaper. After all, what else is immortality good for?" He smiled rather painfully, the shrapnel digging into his skin. He sat down at the table, taking a swig of the cheap wine, and enjoyed the spoils of war—red wine, red as the scarlet blood of the gods.

* * *

"You think they would give us orders by now, the lazy bastards." Matt chugged down another bottle of cheap vodka while the rest of the group watched in annoyance. "I mean, we've been here what, three months? Freezing our asses off, stuck under the command of a fucking whack job. Jesus, you think the army could do a bit better than this."

One bottle. Two bottles. Three bottles. Four bottles lay empty in front of the fourteen-year-old. An experienced drinker indeed, the boy was swaying to and fro while everyone waited with baited breath for him to die of alcohol poisoning. It would save them the trouble of keeping him entertained after the battery supply for his Game Boy ran out.

"For once in his drunken stupor, Matt does have a point. We should go on strike. We have nothing better to do, and frankly, I'm getting tired of translating. It would be easier if they stuck to one language instead of the five I've been greeted with so far." Nathanial yawned as he watched another bottle be drained slowly by the adolescent, rubbing his eyes wearily as he wondered when the boy would upchuck and which direction he would have to move to avoid it. So far it looked as if the boy was favoring his left side.

Nathanial shrugged when met with stares of disbelief, yawning once more and laying his head on the table in an attempt to catch up on the sleep he lacked. Even insane Light Yagami drove him like a dog, watching as he attempted to contact headquarters at all hours of the night. Really, having a wedding ring explode in his face had only made him more temperamental. Still, Nathanial wondered if having tiny shards of metal stuck in your face was really all that bad; it sounded like an excuse to be a bastard to him. An excuse Light was taking complete advantage of.

"Strike? Aren't we already doing nothing? What would we do instead?"

"Well, maybe we should do something, then. If we're already doing nothing, then clearly, to go on strike we have to make ourselves useful by being completely useless." Nathanial vaguely wondered if that could be considered logical. He decided it wasn't, but then, nothing was logical once you got down to the bones of the matter. "What if we were to march around the country side, for example? Pillage villages, rape their women, steal their gold? Just like old times?"

Naomi Misora lifted her eyes from behind the curtain of her black hair, a sarcastic note in her voice. "Rape their women?"

"Oh, you know what I mean. That's not the point. The point is, we're all bored. None of us is getting any saner just sitting here. Frankly, I'm so bored I could revert to cannibalism, and none of us would enjoy that. I would rather march through a blizzard, shooting blindly at some rabid Kira worshippers then spend another night working at that damn radio with a gun pointed at my head."

Somehow, Nathanial's point got across, even to Matt, who five minutes later was passed out on the floor and unfortunately not dead. Plunder and raping aside, the group managed to convince their insane captain that it might be a good idea to get out and kill something besides each other. Or at least, that was how they phrased it when they approached Light.

* * *

The silver was reflected in his golden eyes. He held it before him, allowing it to dangle in the cold sunlight. He frowned as he watched it turn, not even a name displayed, held by his ink-stained hands, the silver lining upon the clouds that hid behind the horizon, a reflection of the sun.

They left him with a number for a name, telling him it was good enough, telling him the lies they fed him were good enough, that to be left to rot without a marker was good enough for him, telling him that his nameless bones wasting away so that even the gods could not find him was good enough. It glinted silver, nameless—a marker for the forgotten man, the words carved upon his grave so that the angels might weep for him, weep for the nameless bones he had left behind. Ashes and dust.

No one mourned the wicked; no one cried for the forgotten man; no one remembered his father; no one remembered him, nothing but the number flashing silver upon his dog tag. It laughed at him, dangling there, above him, looking down with those eyes of silver.

He drew the pocket-knife from his uniform, watching the eyes dangle before him, mocking, laughing, howling with delight. He smiled. The knife moved forward. He placed the dog tag upon his table; the silver eyes grew wide with horror.

He would not be their number, he would not be their statistic, he would not be theirs to own. They would not have his bones, they would not have his soul—they would not have his death cleaned from his hands. He would not be another forgotten man, bones frozen beneath the white sky. The eyes stared at the descending knife, at the mad man's smile. They froze; the laughter stopped.

The dog tag screamed as the knife gauged its polished skin, digging out the ragged kanji with a child's writing on its silver flesh. The madman with the eyes of gold ignored its pleas, merciless as the god he no longer believed in, a grin upon his face as the lines took shape.

His brand upon death, his name for the nameless world he had been born into, his memory left for the soldiers to find. No, they could not have his soul. They could not have his heart. They could not have his bones. The sun stared down upon him, tears falling like light from its eyes. The dog tag died.


	31. He Did Not Wear His Scarlett Coat

**HE DID NOT WEAR HIS SCARLETT COAT**

Don't look down  
it's a long, long way to fall

_-High Flying Adored, Tim Rice_

_

* * *

_

They met the Russians on the third day of marching, each of them slightly worse for wear than they had been a few days prior. The group of men was huddled about a small campfire, watching with raised eyebrows as the company walked into their camp. Talking halted until the group was surrounded by complete silence.

Catherine wondered where she had missed marching about the countryside in her registration for being a cook; she decided it wasn't all that important, carrying the extra gun on her back with her hair tied into an orange knot, attempting to remain upright.

What they had called marching was actually staggered walking—a drunk fourteen year old tripping over every rock in his path, a klutzy red-headed intelligence officer falling over his own feet every five seconds, a dark haired woman attempting to march without a formation around her, an insane captain taking a break every five seconds to drink water then glower at his team… and the rest of them, who dragged themselves at a painstaking pace. Swearing, cursing, and violence became all too common, and Catherine found herself missing her makeshift kitchen.

It was their formation that had first caught the Russian's attention. They watched, at first confused; then they began to laugh as they watched Nathanial fall into Matt, and Matt fall onto Light, and Light fall on his face, then threaten to strangle Matt with his dog tag if he didn't sober up in the next five seconds.

"You look as if you were run over by a herd of cattle," mentioned one of the Russians as they regarded the group, taking in their disheveled appearances and their tired expressions. They spoke in fragmented English after the lack of response to their first few taunts in Russian told them the A Team was not a local troop.

"Yes, well, that's one term for it." Nathanial picked himself up from the cold, snow-covered ground beneath him, reaching over to shake the Russians' hands, only to be denied. He decided to stand awkwardly until they did something. No one moved.

"We were unaware that there were troops employed in the area." Naomi Misora picked up the silence Nathanial had left, her blunt tone reminding Catherine of a particularly dull steak knife—utterly ordinary and absolutely useless. Catherine's blue eyes shifted to the young captain; his golden eyes were locked on the Russians, daring them to insult him.

"Eh, we didn't know they sent tourists here either, but here you are." There was a cheer, and the brazen fool took a swig of something that smelled like vodka through the chorus of laughter. The group said nothing; they were tired of walking and didn't feel the need to defend themselves. Not when Light Yagami would do it for them, free of charge.

They had called Catherine psychotic, and perhaps she was, wielding her steak knives and meat cleavers while she let her temper bounce across the room like a wild gust of wind. She never had time for the social hierarchy—she had always wanted her desserts more than she had wanted company. But she had never shot herself in the face with a wedding ring. Light Yagami was a psychotic mystery.

It had been impulse, it must have been—why were his fingers covered in his own blood? As if he feared to see that blood on someone else's fingers. He would rather paint his own knuckles red then see himself fall to that. The gloves now covered his hands, and Catherine had to wonder if he had ever washed the dried blood off. (Blood still flaked from his neck, at the very least.)

And so he sat, his eyes dark and threatening as he watched the Russians in front of the fire. The team waited for him to explode, almost eagerly, and Light Yagami was never one to disappoint. He began to clap slowly, his eyes dead center on the Russian soldier's eyes, a smile stretching across his lips as the camp fell to silence and the laughter stopped.

"That was clever. Tourist. I'm surprised I didn't think of it myself. You must be looking at the boy here, but I can assure you—though he is a drunk bastard, he has good aim."

Matt had never shot a thing in his life and everyone knew it. He proclaimed that he was accurate with a gun in first-person shooter, but Light had once dared him to hit a target from fifty paces away. Never hit it once, and to Matt's ever-lasting shame, he was the worst shot out of the whole group—including Nathanial, who had nearly hit Light's foot three times. (He said it was an accident, but one could never be too certain; their rivalry consisted of some very bizarre _accidents_.)

"Do you want to know why we left our camp?" he asked, his amber eyes red with the fire that licked the sides of the oven, the wild fire that needed to be put out before it burnt down the kitchen.

"We left our camp because we wanted to kill someone. We don't care who it is. We don't care if they are on _our_ side or _their_ side. Who decides the sides but us? And we can change the sides again. We will not sit like lap dogs, wagging our tales like the loyal idiots we're supposed to be." No, Catherine decided, the blood never truly had washed off his fingers—he was showing the soldiers the red-stained skin underneath his gloves. "Now let me ask you something, and be careful what you answer. I bow to no god, so why should I take your insult like the stupid foreign dog you take me for? I don't care who I kill; I just want to kill someone so they feel just as miserable as I do. You might be that lucky person. Don't push me, Russian drunkard. My temper only lasts so long."

Catherine was surprised at the reaction time. Within two seconds, every armed soldier had drawn their gun and was pointing it at the other side—all except Light Yagami, who stood with his hands in his pockets, head upturned toward the sky, a smile creeping across his face. It hadn't snowed for weeks but as he stood, watching the clouds, Catherine felt he could summon down the crystal flakes with a blink of an eye.

The man at the receiving end of their barrels was unwashed, ungroomed—matted, too-long hair hung limply beyond his nose, while dirt caked his hands and face. Pus bubbled from jagged rips in his chin and cheeks where infection had festered, devouring the flesh with sickness. A bloodstain had been conspicuously _not washed_ from the fading gray of the uniform; it stood crimson, proud and shameful, marring the symbol of a soldier's pride.

"Your bullets are Russian Kira Coalition, and our uniforms are American Kira Coalition. Who do you think will be the truly dead ones, if our corpses are ever unburied?"

"They won't be," comes a cough.

Light Yagami merely shrugged, pristine hands splayed, mouth a contortion of raw, still-bleeding flesh.

They must have seen something in his golden eyes, must have met his fire-driven gaze from between the strands of gnarled hair and ragged plastic mask—because muttering harshly, the Russians stood down.

"Yagami-san, you shouldn't make death threats so lightly." The blunt knife held her gun with two hands, aiming for the head of the poor fool who had been stupid enough to insult Light to his face.

"Penber-san, when will you learn? I hardly do anything lightly." He did not turn to look at her, but watched the sky with rapt attention, not even paying attention to the guns pointed at his chest. Death held no power over him anymore; the golden wedding ring had rid him of it.

"Sir, it's amazing we aren't all dead because of you." A miracle, it was a bloody miracle they hadn't been burned alive by the angry man with furnaces for eyes. He had simply smiled, challenging the heavens as he waited for God to deliver his message.

"I seem to recall that it was _you _that dragged _me _out here and not the other way around. You should be grateful, Penber-san."

"Yes, we know."

And weren't they all grateful, for his insanity rather than their own, so that they could point their fingers at his mask and say that they were no more insane than he was? He was their model, their standard for their own mental state—what were they but grateful? Grateful he was burning in his grief and insanity, blowing his face to bits, threatening to kill strangers with a stray insult—weren't they grateful? They were afraid of him, and yet they loved him for that fear… for that moment, they could say that they could have turned out worse. They could have been Light Yagami, and whatever they might have turned into, sane or insane, was surely better than that.

That's why even Matt managed to hold his tongue during the stand-off—because he wasn't Light Yagami, and he was glad. Their loyalty wasn't through friendship, but through the relief of the role he played in their lives, this man who was worse off than they were. And perhaps that was good enough to be friendship—or so Catherine thought, attempting to aim the gun they handed her before they left.

It wasn't friendship or love, or anything close, for that matter, but it was good enough for them.

* * *

_You stand in a cemetery. You see a man dressed in black staring blankly at a grave. Or rather, you think he is a man, but you cannot be sure—his eyes are those of a man, but he is far too young. He is still as the tombstones that surround him; his amber eyes seem dulled by the death he has witnessed, and you wonder what has brought you to this graveyard. (You are so used to the violence of dreams, the horror, the betrayal… that this stillness has caught you off guard.) _

_He is barely of average height, and yet he seems to loom over the graves. His hands resting at his sides, you can't help but think he looks far too comfortable in black—a man accustomed to funeral processions. He ignores you, but you know he can see you. Out of the corners of his ember eyes, he knows you are there. He chooses to ignore you, and that is what frightens you the most, because no man should have the power to ignore you. Hate you, love you—but ignore you? There is only one being capable of ignoring you, and he is not even human. _

_He holds nothing in his hands, and yet his fingers twitch as if he feels he should have brought something—a rose, a picture, an orchid… something to memorialize the grave. The small movements mark his humanity among the death, among the corpses he treads upon. You feel as if you should know this boy, this boy with eyes too weary, too dark for a human. (Vaguely, you are reminded of another pair of eyes, blue as the Pacific, but you shake your head—this boy has eyes of ember, not of death.) _

"_Sayu, you should have known better than this." His tone is not that of someone grieving—it is far too distant to be a griever, and again that sense of familiarity nags on you; you have the urge to flee from his voice and his ember eyes, because this isn't the violence you expected. He is far too still, far too removed, far too like _him_, the child of death. _

_He turns, to face you, his eyes dangerous as he leaves the graveyard, a black wraith against the white sky, drifting off like smoke into the horizon. You are left watching, shaking, screaming in your bed. He brought no rose, he brought no death, no grief, no sense of mourning—and that is why you recognize him. How could you not? After the years he has spent torturing you, how could you not recognize his stillness?_

_Because you recognize his eyes. Despite their amber glaze, you recognize the color of death in his eyes. And you wake up screaming._


	32. For the Dull Brain

**FOR THE DULL BRAIN **

What once was a rare champagne  
Is now just an amiable hock

-_Liaisons, Stephen Sondheim_

_

* * *

_

Disaster struck the team after two weeks of marching. Gathered around a fire, they watched each other warily, not quite comfortable with the idea that they had to sleep within such a close proximity of one another. This was primarily because they were all uneasily aware of the fact that there were multiple weapons at the others' disposal, and that it would be so easy to sneak over, pick one up, and massacre the entire camp.

Matt was the first to realize that they had run out of wine. Of course, at first, he simply believed they misplaced it. After all, it had to be somewhere—they couldn't have drunk through their stores that fast. But as it turned out, with two alcoholics on the team, a few moderate drinkers, a drunk-watcher who seemed unnaturally eager to get as many men simultaneously drunk as possible, and the occasional drinking contest to pass the time, they had completely drained their inventory of alcohol. (The last face-off had been between Nathanial and Marcus; Nathanial had lost after one glass when he toppled over and threw up his purple-spotted dinner on the ground)

The fourteen-year-old began to panic. He scrambled about the makeshift camp, desperate for a drop of the liquor that would allow him to suspend reality for at least five minutes. But no such luck could be found; Matt was in such complete and utter horror that he addressed the problem with the rest of the team. No more alcohol. That meant they would have to deal with each other while sober.

That was why the group practically ran into town, desperation on each of their faces (except for Light Yagami, who simply looked bored) as they sprinted toward the closest tavern they could find. Each of them fell through the doorway, shouting curses and waving about paper bills, begging for something to drink.

The bartender watched, his jaw hanging like a porch swing while the ragged ensemble marched through the door, invading his counter like starving children. Their eyes huge and mournful, they shouted out their drink orders in rushed English, each name sounding more ridiculous than the last.

"Bloody Mary!" Matt made his way to the bar, his eyes on the man's vodka. He waved about the English pounds in his hands as if he were hailing a taxi.

"Martini on the rocks." Marcus sidled into an empty space, his face drawn and his eyes bloodshot.

"Vodka." Mogi gave the most straightforward drink he could think of.

"Red-headed Slut," Catherine said, unaware that the bartender thought she was introducing herself.

"Something potent." Light pulled himself up to the counter, putting on his, 'I'm completely normal and if you don't believe me, I'll kill you,' façade. Evidently, it didn't work; the bartender simply continued to stare apprehensively at the faded blood-stain on Light's uniform before slowly reaching for his gun. Best not to trust soldiers.

"He's going to shoot us, isn't he?" Nathanial watched as the bartender froze and carefully removed his hand from the vicinity of his rifle, noticing for the first time, perhaps, just how many weapons the rag-tag team had.

"Someone's always trying to shoot us." Marcus was very apt in pointing things like this out, creating a philosophy that predicted all manner of reactions to their ensemble.

The bartender made an inward estimate of the money he would lose through property damage. Damn foreign soldiers.

* * *

By the end of the night, it was difficult to decide whether Naomi was scarier drunk or sober. At least when she was sober, she had better aim and didn't attempt to have a sense of humor. Either way, everyone was disturbed.

* * *

Nathanial began to remember why he had sworn off alcohol in the first place, and had switched to good old coffee. The room was spinning in multiple directions; he felt as if he were on a cruise ship surrounded by American tourists.

* * *

Were it possible, Matt became drunker than he was during his training sessions.

* * *

Marcus won a drinking contest with every person in the bar, then decided to drink a few victory shots. That's when he passed out on the floor like the stereotypical drunkard. Somewhere in the heavens, his dignity was trying to roll in its grave.

* * *

Catherine honed her knives and stared at Light Yagami's reflection in their surface, noticing how much sharper he looked under the influence of alcohol.

* * *

Mogi didn't drink. He preferred to sit back in the corner and not be remembered when it came time to pay the bill.

* * *

Afterwards, they swore a pact that the next time they crashed a bar, they would remember to remove the gun from the bartender first. Or at least shoot the man before their aim went to hell.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: Freakishly short chapter. Would've stuck it with the next one, but this is a comedic relief transition... and that is definitely not. SO YOU GET A SHORT CHAPTER AND A FAST UPDATE. DEAL.**


	33. Death Shall Die

**DEATH SHALL DIE**

Find him, bind him  
Tie him to a pole and break  
His fingers to splinters  
Drag him to a hole until he  
Wakes up naked  
Clawing at the ceiling  
Of his grave

_-The Mariner's Revenge Song, The Decemberists_

_

* * *

_

Fire, screaming, gun shots: the bullets were everywhere at once and Light Yagami could feel the flames of Hell burning his legs to the bone. There was no noise besides the screaming—no tolling of funeral bells, no requiem to be played, only the death and the dying. Bleeding, he dragged himself through the haze of panic and adrenaline; fear was pumping through his veins. The human blood no longer existed.

Somewhere in the heavens, he could hear God's brutal laughter. A woman with raven's hair crawled up beside him, her grey eyes locked on the Kira soldiers in front of them, her finger squeezing the trigger without remorse.

"That drunk idiot. I swear, if Catherine doesn't get to him, I'll kill him myself." Odd words for her; they didn't match the fury on her face, the screaming that sounded around them. They didn't match the color of the blood and the sky. Had he wanted this death?

"Captain, we're outnumbered." The bluntness returned, her expression becoming steely once more, a stone upon the mountainside watching the unwary traveler pass through. The guns sounded like thunder, pounding from the skies, the immortal drums of war.

"He's going to get us killed through his intoxicated stupidity. We can't win this fight, Captain. We have to leave."

Light blinked a vision of a raven dancing before him, waiting for his carcass. He saw another man, an older man with glasses, his bones resting beneath his feet—Father. Perhaps his son would die on his grave. He began to laugh.

"Light Yagami, if you commit suicide, how are you ever going to blow Nealan Adessi's brains out?"

The snow stopped, the world began to freeze—death, yes, he was going to die. Mortal, he was mortal again. His humanity had returned, only to remind him of the blood in his veins, of the breath in his lungs. His golden eyes widened as he took in the human, finite world he lived in, a world where even the snow could die.

"I don't want to die," he said slowly, tasting the words on his lips, trying them out to see if they were true. Panic welled behind the whisper, the almost inaudible words that laced his tongue. He looked at her, the grey-eyed raven with the gun in her hands. Her eyes narrowed as the men fell before her aim.

He repeated the words a second time: "I don't want to die." This time they were fact, certain, his mortality set in place he surveyed the situation. Surrounded, Kira soldiers on all sides, full ammunition, murder intent upon their faces. He and the woman were alone among corpses of other soldiers, of allies—the rest of his team was unseen among the corpses.

"We walked in on an enemy campsite. Matt was drunk; he was talking loudly. We were with the French. He fired the first shot, and missed. We're running out of bullets, I can't shoot them all, this is a dead man's gun I've stolen and even the dead are running out of ammo. We need to leave. Now."

Light nodded, his voice cutting in. "The others?" His question was left for the air to interpret; his fleeting sanity made the most of its time, efficiency fueled by panic, panic bringing back what remained of his shattered mind.

"Already retreated, if they're smart," she replied, but Light knew: he had seen them leaving one at a time, leaving him to die. He smiled at the thought, not blaming them for an instant. Only the raven stayed to watch its prey die.

"The French?" he asked, staring at the few remaining soldiers firing away at the far too numerous enemy.

"Can go to Hell." She pulled at him and motioned for the distance, away from the white tents and the crimson blood, away from the corpses and the gunshots, away from the humanity. He nodded and they both crawled out of Hell and back again, never once looking back at the underworld's dark river.

* * *

**Scourge's Note: And now it's a violent transition! YAY! Next chapter will be on to the bits that needed transitioning. NO MORE SHORT STUFF FOR YOU READERS. Also, review. We were -almost- at double the chapter count, and then we started falling behind. D:  
**


	34. The Twist Mouth Family

**THE TWIST-MOUTH FAMILY**

So now we will both kill the messenger  
It's such a blur  
you didn't even see

Time runs  
Time runs  
Time runs  
time runs out

If I should die  
If I should…

(Your failing words once moved heaven and earth)

-_Cutthroat Collapse, Emery_

Around a pool of light, there hunched five winged skeletons. Backs hunched, limbs quaking, their eyes scavenged the stark world below. In their gnarled fingers they clutched their pens with drying ink, desperation in the shaking of their hands.

"That one," the first said, sandpaper tongue clicking against crooked teeth. "His mask—the Kira slave's got it in his hands! It'll be gone in a second. I saw it first. I call him!"

"No, no, I so saw him first. I was pointing!" The skeleton beside him waggled a one-jointed finger for emphasis. "Pointing!"

The vultures crowded closer, screaming their carrion-pigeon claims. _Mine mine mine_, they said. Gambling bones clattered against drought-cracked earth; the savvier Shinigami sat back silently, fingers twitching, never letting prey out of cut through the gamblers' wasteland as the soldiers scrabbled for life, dying screams playing to the tune of the rolls.

The goddess of fate watched the bones through the eyes of the snake—dead leads to dead, not life anymore. Though there was blood on the ground, there was only dust in the heavens. The balance was gone and the vultures were left staring at the bones of their own creation. One roll, two rolls, three. The bones show only what they have shown before and will show again. Nothing more.

One of the skeletons cackled, feather-less wings fluttering uselessly. "That one's down!" Empty sockets scoured the ground for tools of distraction, a cloud of dust to throw into the vultures' eyes. Grin cracking his face, he reached down, plucked his femur out of his bone structure, and slammed it down upon his neighbor's pate. The skull fractured; the Shinigami keened, then proceeded to abscond with the attacker's humerus. Bare leather wings scraped against each other. Gambling cups dropped to the ground. Bone splintered.

Like all scavengers by trade, the others knew when to take advantage. The pens raced across the notebooks. The name was written in clear black ink, only to disappear back into the dust from whence it came.

"And that one!"

The vultures' heads twisted around, contortions of bone and popping joints.

"Ewwwwww," bemoaned one Shinigami. "Look what he just did to that guy's skull!"

"The mask's coming off..."

There was silence.

One pen rose in stupefied hesitation, then clattered to the ground.

"Erm… that one's…" The Shinigami trailed off.

"Where'd his face go?"

Below the earth and sky the goddess of fate sat, cackling at the calamity above her head, hands upon the puppet strings.

"Maybe they have no faces—maybe their masks have become their faces. After all, it has been so long. Perhaps their flesh has eroded beneath the plastic, leaving nothing but the bones. Perhaps, like us, they have no faces left to call their own."

Four skeleton heads bobbed in sage agreement. _Yeah, yeah, yeah_ came the vulture cries, shrieking and discordant and knowing in their double-breasted evening suits and white-puffed cravats, stock brokers ripping meat from the carcass of their dinner guests for the sake of their wares, frozen in confusion as the corpse sat up to spit blood in their faces.

The fifth just sat, head cocked, dinner fork hanging limply in the air. "…He just has too much hair."

* * *

Far beneath them, a man with a silver dog tag turned his face to the moon. No crimson name floated above his head. No numbers ticked endlessly towards zero. It was as if he did not exist, as if he were already dead. Perhaps he was a ghost; perhaps a god. Or perhaps—he really did just have too much hair.

* * *

The raven flew high above the battlefield, black feathers bright in the sunlight, in the gunshots, in the blood that was spilt so casually on the land below. It perched upon the tattered uniform of a corpse, talons spearing grey soaked through with blood. Black eyes narrowed as it stared down at the frozen skin, at the frozen hand reaching for ammunition.

A watch had fallen from the dead man's pocket. Its black hands ticked away, moved past the midnight hour, ticking onward. The raven cocked its head and began to crow, beak plunging into the man's unguarded eye. And it was death who stole the eyes of man…

Naomi Misora's pale fingers wrapped around the silver chain of the watch, gazing at the raven perched upon the dead man's skull. She turned from death abruptly, placing the watch safely in her pocket, walking away from the painted sky. The small village of tents awaited her, doors flying in the breeze, a white village against a scarlet ground. They tired of running from their own nightmares; they wallowed in the blood because they had nowhere else to go.

The masked figures were unusually silent, watching the corpses with nostalgia in their eyes. They had never asked for war. The black-haired woman sat opposite Nathanial, whose eyes locked upon the raven.

"I wonder if they knew they were going to die today." The bird's claws clutched at the man's skin, blood welling up as the flesh was torn away, piece by piece.

Naomi pulled the watch out of her pocket, watching as the hands made their way, ticking away at their lives, its glass surface covered in dried blood. "Perhaps," she answered, her eyes never leaving her glass reflection.

"Makes me wonder if we'll know." He sighed, stretching his gloved fingers out in front of him, the silver watch glinting in the corner of his eyes. "I just have this terrible feeling that we're all going to die."

Naomi said nothing, turning to stare at him, watching his eyes harden and his fingers clench at the fabric of his bloodstained jacket. There was no question floating between them, no words—only the raven pecking at the dead man's eyes.

She stood abruptly, pocketing the watch once more and turning to leave the intelligence officer to his own devices.

"We should bury them, you know—get rid of the bodies, anyway." His voice cracked. He coughed, clutching at the jacket that no longer warmed him.

"The ground's too hard for burying; we don't have enough wood or gas to burn them. At least the ravens will have something to eat." Because in the end, they were all the food for the carrion. It was only a matter of whether the outside world bothered to look.

"Yes, the ravens… There's always a raven, isn't there?"

But she had already left, walking towards a single tent that hid the man with the scars on his face. War had changed them all far more than they expected.

"Have you been stealing from the damned, Penber-san?" Light Yagami's scarred fingers traced the silver lining of the watch, gazing into his scarred reflection. The mask gave way to the shards of bullet lodged into his face. His lips twitched into a half smile before falling back into their apathetic state.

"He didn't appear to be using it." Naomi shrugged, remembering that the man no longer had the eyes to read time, anyway. The raven had stolen his eyes—why should he have missed a silver-pocket watch?

His face was almost revealed. There had been... an accident. There were myths, now, about the demon who dared to bare his name to the vengeful Shinigami. They said he had walked about in the light, face naked (he had). They said he spelled his name, character by character, to his victims as he killed them (he did). They said that not even the gods of death dared to touch him (they didn't). They said it had been visible months (it had been an hour, maybe two). They said he still breathed, still killed, with his eyes open to the gods (he didn't). They said he would never die...

The new mask halted just below his eyes. The scars danced across his pale face. At one point of his life, she might have described him as fair, his features, delicate—but the scars distorted whatever symmetry might have existed. The twisting lines almost matched his silent smile, a raven's bitter smile. The neck of his uniform was stained with the blood that had been spilt by his own hand—his faded crimson blood that had dripped down his face, staining the gray of the uniform. It always seemed that Yagami was covered in blood—whether his own or someone else's, it was hard to tell, for his gloves, recently discarded, were also stained scarlet.

"We can't keep fighting like this." The words echoed throughout the tent, and yet he gave no response—merely continued to stare at his reflection, looking perhaps for the child he had once been. He twisted the watch in his hands. The silver flashed in the sunlight; the smile returned to his face.

"God wouldn't dare kill me now. Why should I be afraid of the dark?" The smile widened—the raven's smile, the bird perched upon the corpses of the enemy soldier. Once more, she was caught off guard by his pale face, the uncovered face that he dared to show the world. And yet, no one had thought to kill him for his sins.

"I'm afraid of the dark." She was afraid of many things, so many things she had disregarded when she was a younger woman. She was afraid of the man sitting before her, afraid of his golden eyes and his dark smile. She was afraid of the blood staining his clothes, the blood that faded but never truly disappeared.

"Well then, it is a good day to die, Penber-san." He wore the Cheshire grin, disappearing behind his clever smile and the laughter. Only his golden eyes were visible through the curtain of his blood-stained hair, boring into her soul through the scars painted across his pale skin.

She turned from the sight of him, knowing that it would be useless to explain, knowing that all that rested between them was the watch in his hands, the only reminder of his mortality that was slowly but surely slipping away. Light Yagami was dying in his blood-stained uniform, and from the ashes he emerged, a shadow of himself. She was not so foolish to believe in phoenixes, but when staring at him, she could believe in gods of death.

"Yes, I suppose it is, Yagami Light."

Within her mind, she saw the raven perched upon the dead its eye. It turned towards her; the blood dripped down its feathers; and a silver watch rested within the corpse's crimson glove.

Yagami Light took off his mask.

* * *

Wandering through the open market, Catherine let her gaze linger on the army supplies, which were being sold at a price that would make any tourist shudder. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Catherine was a convincing haggler (rather, the steak knife in her pocket was). But there came a point where her reputation as one of Light Yagami's overpowered even the might of her knives.

She had not expected them to fear her, to look into her blue eyes and shove their goods in her face. (And it wasn't patriotism, no matter what they said; she could see the lies in their silver reflections. She could see their fearful lies.) At first, she thought it was the knife—that had happened before, back before the snow began to fall, back when her fingers were covered in cinnamon and saffron.

But that was a long time ago, and no one was afraid of their silver reflection anymore. They had seen their sorrowful masks far too often to be frightened any longer. In her blue eyes, they saw _his_ scarred reflection: they saw the man with the oven eyes.

The whispers were growing louder, always loud enough to hear, but quiet enough to be a whisper of wind. They never saw him: they saw his shadow, standing beside her while she bartered. And suddenly, it wasn't bartering anymore. It was a bribe.

(She thought he knew, when she came back those first couple times. He never came with them, though he never gave an explanation, instead preferring to sit alone with his thoughts and his far-reaching his shadow. He waved them off with a bemused expression, as if he could see something beyond the kitchen knives and new supplies. And perhaps he could.)

He did come with them once, his tattered coat (painted scarlet by his own hand) floating behind him as he walked through the streets, his hands covered so delicately with gloves. (But they were only the sauce, the cream; they were not the true dish, merely the decoration. And even Catherine was no longer sure what waited beneath his lies.)

And somewhere in those streets, he saw his blood-stained reflection, he saw the scarred, mask-less face, and reached out toward it with the white-gloved hand.

He never came back.

So she carries his mask for him, toting it with her as she terrorizes each vendor in turn, her arms filled with the food she hadn't earned. For it was his mask that they saw, his shadow, his golden eyes that burned into their souls, and it was for him that they painted the evil eye upon their doorways.

(Blue paint, like the frosting on those birthday cakes, from all those years ago. But his eyes were like the sunlight, like the crescent moon—how could blue stop his shadow?)

And sometimes, she thought he knew.

Sitting so silently, her knives refused to reflect the fire in his eyes. Yes, he knew, she was sure of it.

And yet, the silence was so comforting.

* * *

**According to rules revealed in the series: In**** order to see the names and life spans of humans by using the eye power of the god of death, the owner must look at more than half of that person's face. _When looking from top to bottom, he must look at least from the head to the nose._ If he looks at only the eyes and under, he will not be able to see the person's name and life span. Also, even though some parts of the face, for example the eyes, nose or mouth are hidden, if he can basically see the whole face, he will be able to see the person's name and life span. It is still not clear how much exposure is needed to tell a person's name and life span, as this needs to be verified.**


	35. Across Death's Other River

**ACROSS DEATH'S OTHER RIVER**

That's why it sounds kind of funny  
when he falls to his knees  
with his hand on his throat while he begs you to please  
(spare his life)  
Falls to his knees  
(when he falls to his knees)  
Falls to his knees  
(With his hand on his throat while he begs you please)  
spare his life

Oh, all of this ask for change  
(change)  
While I explain the hardest of bodies dulls the softest of knives

When I hold up his head and carve X's in his eyes  
carve X's in his eyes

_-Bury the Hatchet, Protest the Hero_

He was formed of the bones of the earth; though his eyes were the fire of the dying sun, he was the mask of death. For he was neither god nor human—he was the twilight of the Shinigami Realm. He was the phantom of the desert, the bones of their ancestors ground to dust, the whispering of the worlds they had long since forgotten.

They had forgotten the color of his amber eyes, but he had never forgotten them. Through the mortal fires and the white robes, they remembered his gloved hands. Master of them all, he stood, time and light and death. They had forgotten Death wore a human face; they had forgotten his burning eyes, and his dust-covered clothing.

Light Yagami. The name suited him well, for it spoke both of time and its reflection, it spoke of his ancient eyes, it spoke of his shadow, the face they would never see. A vision in the darkness, phantasm of the desert, leading both mortal and god astray: No one escaped Death's third face.

And now with his shadow spread across the human world, how could they deny his presence? How could they deny their own god of death? Even as he stared up at them in the bloody clothes of a soldier, his face defiled by scars, a silver watch hanging from his hand, they recognized his eyes, they recognized his smile. The dust had turned red and he had come for them all. They were terrified of the vision that was Light Yagami.

They didn't need his name, because they all knew the name. It was born in their hearts before they had ever laid eyes upon his face. They didn't need a name.

* * *

_A perpetual twilight hangs in the air. The dying light wavers in the distance as an ember of the forgotten sun. You look towards it, hardly noticing the bones that crunch beneath your feet. The sand is dark and coarse, and distantly, you realize that your feet are bleeding._

_The world is dim, the air filled with the black dust—the sky seems to be fading into the earth, like your bleeding feet. You look towards the heavens and all you can see is the darkness, the shadows that twist and turn within the pit of the sky. _

"_I used to steal faces like yours."_

_You turn to see the creature with the painted face, the crawling, creaking thing with the deep voice and the dark eyes. You step away from it, repulsed by its grotesque limbs and shifting face. _

"_But I suppose that was back when humans had faces." It grins at you, watching as you compose your scarred face, waiting as you take another step back. It circles around you, preventing you from exiting the dying world. _

"_You all look the same now—plastic. You steal each other's faces and parade them about the streets. I still have quite an arsenal, but, well, it's not the same anymore. It's just been so long since I've had a new face to wear." The face shifts into that of a woman, her eyes green and her hair flowing. A smirk finds its way upon her lips. "Especially one as pretty as yours."_

_You no longer are moving, but are watching the creature, your golden eyes glazed with the knowledge that you cannot escape the horror that circles around you. The creature's spindly legs crunch in the earth, stepping lightly in the trickle of blood._

"_Times change. The old ways are nearly forgotten; we are all but dust in the wind. I wonder if humans even remember they had faces. Ah well. It doesn't matter now, does it? There's always you." _

_The shifting faces—they change rapidly now, spinning through the arsenal of man, woman, and child. You do not follow them; you merely watch the flow of humanity's forgotten faces, the expressions and the lines. _

"_I'm sure you used to be quite beautiful, behind those nasty little scars—the only face left in the world covered in scars. Do you ever feel as if you've betrayed your people? Wearing a face like that?"_

_Your hand reaches toward your face, tracing the jagged scars across your cheek. _

"_You know a face isn't really a face unless it can be stolen. Without expression, it's only a mask, a lined and worn mask of flesh. Intricate and beautiful—but in the end, only a mask. I steal expression; I steal fear, anger, betrayal; but nothingness is beyond me." _

_It mocks you. You hear the words and feel your eyes begin to burn. Your face is motionless, the scars pale and cold. The darkness is all consuming, and it has not yet worn your face._

"_Your face is death," it whispers when it fades back into the shadows and the everlasting sunset. _

* * *

Light Yagami stood, facing the corpses of the untrained Kira soldiers, watching the red disappear from their flesh. The dead did not even possess the skill to keep their own blood. Though a scarf covered the lower portion of his face, it was evident that his skin was bare, and that his gloves were soiled with blood.

"He looks like a god of death." Naomi watched from a distance, her eyes on her captain's thin figure, the scarlet-stained jacket and the red gloves. She watched as he rifled through the corpses, in search of ammunition, or something that might be somewhat useful.

"And how the fuck would you know what a goddamn Shinigami looks like?" Matt spit out the stub of his last cigarette, bitterly wondering when he would be able to find another pack, or if he would be able to find one at all.

"I said god of death, not Shinigami. They're different." She watched as he stepped over the corpses beneath his feet, his golden eyes so dead and cold. The world had been cruel to him, it was true. But the world had been cruel to many, and it had given him wings of scarlet.

He looked back at her, his eyes the rays of the setting sun, that distant golden fire that had nearly drifted below the horizon. His shadow, a raven at his back, always watching, silver watch hanging from its ghastly beak. Time ticked away towards the midnight hour.

No human could have a raven for a shadow.

* * *

"What strange eyes you have," he told his reflection as he stared into the mirror.

"The better to see the blood on your hands," the image answered with a grin, the scars on his face stretching in response. His face bent, shifting, changing beneath his wavering emotions.

"What red clothes you wear," he commented once again, his eyes locked on the collar of the red stained jacket.

"Your own blood stained them." The reflection flexed his gloves, watching as the wrinkles formed and disappeared within the soiled fabric. The blood of his enemies and his allies—it was so very hard to tell them apart.

"What twisted thoughts you have."

"The better to see you with."

* * *

Matt sometimes wondered if he was stupid when he had signed up for the military, because he hadn't expected the bloodshed. He hadn't expected them to come and find their small group and try to shoot them to pieces—all because of their captain.

Sometimes, he blamed Light Yagami, because that's all they really could do. It was Light Yagami's fault they were still alive, but it was also his fault that they were all going to die like fucking animals. Sometimes, Naomi Misora would say that God was laughing at them, and Matt liked to agree—because it sounded true. But Light wasn't laughing, and he was god enough for them.

Sitting in the ground between bodies, shooting out the enemy, he would see Light Yagami, unmasked and unscathed. Sometimes he really did look like a god of death, their own personal grim reaper. But was it a blessing or a curse to have death on your side? Sooner or later, he would kill them too. He wasn't sure whether Yagami really saw them, or if he just saw a few more stragglers holding guns at his face.

Someday, Light Yagami was going to kill them all. Misora had said it, Nathanial knew it, Marcus drank it away with vodka—but one way or another, they knew. 'He looks like a god of death,' she had said, and she was right. Because he was a god of death—he was their god of death. He brought them corpses and fear, and someday they would drown in it.

Sometimes, Matt hated the war.

* * *

Mogi decided that it was all relative. What little fame they received hung in the balance of their distance from Light Yagami. Without him, they were simply more soldiers—but he was their unmasked prince, and that spoke for itself. He was the god. They were merely the servants, divine by association, feared because of the scars on his face, because of the smile in his inhuman eyes.

They never expected something like Light Yagami. Even Kira—he had not been a god, not like Light was.

But that was before they believed in gods, before they believed in Shinigami—that was when L didn't have a face and they were expected to follow orders. It was different in the war, different when following a man who had no fear of the living or the dammed.

Yagami was so very similar to the L Mogi had known, the one who hid so confidently behind his gothic letter and his masked voice. But Light had nowhere to hide, nowhere left to run, so he let the world see exactly what he was and they ran from him.

There were rumors that Yagami Light was a god of death. They were not out of place—they were simply wrong. But how were they to know that Light had been born a human? How were any of them to know if he truly was human behind his scarred face, the face that frightened even the gods?

They said he sold his face to the devil; they said he was the devil; they said he was death haunting their streets; and they barred their doors against him and his demons.

"Take what you want and get out."

The evil eye watched them and the rumors soared, perhaps even to Kira. And that was why the soldiers came: the challenge of the unmasked advisory, the challenge of defeating Light Yagami. Mogi didn't pretend to know the answer, but he watched all the same.

He was merely divine by association. He didn't pretend to be god, or to have god's ear.

* * *

There was a child born to a far off kingdom. His parents threw a reception in order to receive the gifts of the gods. He was given intelligence, he was given resourcefulness, he was given love—but he was also given death.

The parents of the child had forgotten to invite death. When his gloved hand rested upon their child's head and when his scarlet eyes stared down upon them, they realized their folly. In his hand, the silver watch dangled, and upon his shoulder, a raven fluttered. He cocked his head, surveying the child.

"Wonderful gifts, all of these," he said softly. The clock ticked away in his hand; the parents were left helpless and stunned before him. "I understand, of course, for who would invite death to honor his son?"

"Still," he continued, watching the child squirm in his cradle, "I wonder what good these will serve him. Perhaps he needs another gift, a far more precious gift. For many are intelligent, many are resourceful, and far too many have loved."

Death, dressed as humanity, gave a cruel smile as the mother reached toward her child, tears dripping from her eyes. "No, I will give him a far greater gift than all of these—rarer. I will give him the sight so that he may never be blinded by death."

Death faded into smoke. When the child next opened his eyes, they were garnet in cut and shade. And so the boy grew, resourceful, intelligent, capable of love and with the eyes that death had gifted him. He saw the world through the scarlet of loneliness, through the times and names reflected above a person's head, drifting so delicately back and forth.

The father died first. A car accident, the mother said, but the boy saw the numbers. He had seen how they had run out. The mother came next—one day, her numbers dwindled too low. The boy knew that he would never see her again, watching the world from his ruby eyes.

He fell in love with a name, with a letter, with a face he saw fleetingly. His advisory, his greatest rival—he fell in love and he copied himself in his love's image. All but the eyes were changed, the crystal, red eyes. He killed for the man, taking those with life spans dwindling, with names that matched; death conquered his life for love, for the love that came unrequited.

Light stood in his window, watching the lies and the death. The boy with the eyes played a game with his silent king. He was there when the boy set his skin aflame, watching carefully when the woman with the raven hair flew past him to put the child out. But it was all the same, for Light had given him death in a pair of scarlet eyes.

The blind moved onwards and the child died, charred and dark within his prison, scarlet eyes unmarred by the flame's loathsome touch. His hand reached out, toward the silver watch that hung so delicately from the gloved hands of the reaper.

* * *

Naomi met her death when sifting through enemy ammunition. It had eyes of marble and a laugh of grating stones; with raven's wings, it settled on the corpses of the poor young rivals. _Hyuk_. The bells of its laughter rang in her ears as she fell backwards, terror lodged in her throat in the sound of a scream.

But only the dead could hear her, and their hands were broken beneath her scrambling feet. Her death, high above, floated in the air with crooked raven's wings. Yellow eyes locked upon her, the red pupils roving back and forth as it laughed. She never imagined her death would laugh.

"Shinigami," she said, but then she was not sure—for it could just as easily be a product of the corpses, a demon sent by the gods. So she stared up in fear, in horror, watching as the thing chuckled down at her and extended a thin black hand.

"Ryuk's the name. Hiyah." She shook it delicately; her fingers trembled beneath the gloves, wondering what poison seeped from its skin.

She did not answer, but instead moved backwards—back toward the earth and away from the hovering demon in the sky. Away from the raven with the painted face, the stolen, painted face—she was reminded of her captain's bitter smile through its jagged teeth.

Again she was reminded of that day with the raven, and the watch—the watch that had been a gift of sorts, ticking away in his gloved hand. She remembered the raven; of course she did. Even if it wasn't the first or the last, she remembered it. She wondered if ravens could steal faces, and if their voices would sound like laughter.

"Least you don't scream. The others scream—all of them scream. Like they didn't know we were floating above their heads the whole time, like it was some big surprise. Look at you. You still don't expect it and you know. What else are the masks for?" It laughed at the irony of it, at her stunned expression and her hands reaching for her gun. Her hand stopped, wondering at the waste of the bullets. How can a human kill a god of death?

"Can you die?" she asked. They were first words she said to the thing since it had appeared. It looked taken aback, but it smiled as well. It cocked its head as if trying to decide whether or not she was worth the information.

"Do you have an apple?" it asked in reply (but even as she shook on the ground, she wondered if that was the answer or another irrelevancy—to answer a question with a question.) Naomi decided that lying to a god of death might not be wise, especially when only a thin mask separated her from death.

"No," she said curtly, watching the sag of its face—as if in disappointment, "but I can get one."

When one is bargaining with the devil it is best to bring something to the table, lest he get the upper hand. It laughed again, crowing at her foolishness, and she felt the dread once again, the horror, consuming her.

"We have one Kira too many down here. We don't need another one." She watched as it shrugged, as if the point were irrelevant—which, in a way, she supposed it was.

"I just came to watch the show from down here. First row seats, you know? Better view. You can actually see people's faces from down here."

She figured it wasn't literal, but she felt for her mask, just in case.

"'Sides, things are gonna get interesting now. He's slipping fast, isn't he?"

"You mean the captain?"

The thing paused, searching for the right words, or perhaps the right name. Finally, it let out a grin. "You know the guy with the scars,"

She supposed it suited Light well enough, though the Shinigami neglected to mention the blood.

"What do you mean by slipping?"

But she could see, too. It wasn't hard. His eyes were so dark and cold, and his hands blood stained—he had been slipping before he came and now it was only a matter of time. And all the watching in the world couldn't stop it. The demons still tore at his soul, and there was nothing to do but watch the wavering lines of his reflection.

"Wonder what it's gonna be like when he snaps?"


	36. We Wear the Mask

**Scourge's Note: Long time no see again, folks. Thanks to those of you who're still reading after all this time. Reviews, as always, are much appreciated and hopefully responded to (although our email alerts have been funky lately; not sure if it's Yahoo or Fanfiction net). Also, we were _almost_ to an average of two reviews per chapter, 'n we were really happy about that. Alas, we haven't yet reached that number. It'd be cool if we did by the time the story winds down. **

**Enough of my rambling. March onwards!**

* * *

**WE WEAR THE MASK**

More sinned against than sinning, please  
You're not above my suspicions  
You're lamb and serpent just like me  
It's more than just superstition  
Then suddenly, I'm finding out that it's me you'll be taking down with you

_-A Charming Spell, Splashdown__  
_

It was said that Death wore three faces.

Love, which drew eyes to the world below so they might lean in and see all that they could not have. Love that watched and coveted, love that changed what should have been apathetic. Love was cruel, and never betrayed her secrets. They sensed nothing, for they could not see the hands of death; they could not even see the dust of what should have been their reaper.

Boredom, the poison that had sunk into their bones and their hearts until even their hands stopped moving. The rot had infested their world for so long they could hardly feel it—all but the whispers that destroy their minds. Slowly, they crumbled into dust as the names moved past them, beyond them, until they were indistinguishable from the sand of the desert.

But death had a third face, ineffable and unseen, his eyes upon the gods of death just as their eyes watched the humans. They could not see this face; they could not see through his mask, for he came in many forms, always changing, always shifting beneath their gaze, until he had them tangled in his puppet strings. His name was the whisper of the wind, the fire in a dying human's eyes.

He was their god of fate, god of consequences, god of reflected sunlight. His face was no more than a porcelain mask, lost amid a sea of one thousand human faces. His shadow stretched across the face of both worlds, the wingless angel, the blind Shinigami, the reaper of the dammed.

(Even the fledgling Shinigami, arrogant and proud as they were, knew to fear their own gods of death.)

* * *

The third face of death was also the god of time. The Shinigami realm on its own was timeless, but Light was time. It was the passing of days and years that aged humanity so terribly. He controlled the numbers above the humans' head, dwindling away into nothingness as humanity reached closer into eternity.

But he had not always been the face of Death; before Death, he had been a watchmaker with a human face of his own.

(Here, Ryuk would pause for effect—or if not for effect, then inspiration—to continue. It was hard coming up with such bold-faced lies, but soon enough, the next sentence or two would come to him and he would continue.)

Humanity abandoned him when he made and lost a bargain with the god of humans. A child at the time, he had looked up from the gears of the watch on his table, his eyes watching god.

(Ryuk never knew what color to call those eyes, for no color ever seemed to stick—it was always evading him.)

Light was in need of glory, God was in need of a reaper—but the human had never imagined glory such as that. He traded his name for the Notebook, his watch for an immortal's scarlet eyes, his life for the dust that would greet his bones at the end of the road. Betrayed by his own desires, by his own expectations, he wandered, the wingless angel, between worlds… always planning, always scheming, for his eyes were always watching god.

Though if asked, they were never quite sure what he had asked for, or what the god had given him. They only knew the emptiness in his eyes, the stillness of his face, the dust trapped between the creases in his gloves, and the cruelty of his smile.

The third face of death had his secrets.

* * *

There once was a Shinigami named Lux. One day, he came upon Deth's third face. There was nothing in the desert but the memories left forgotten by gods of death, so naturally, upon the bones of the great beasts should the human face of death be found.

"You must be death," said Lux, for he was very clever. He watched as the human nodded, his hands fiddling with the gears of a watch, a smile upon his porcelain lips. But in a battle of wits, Deth always wins, for he is older than the earth and sky, and he was there before the rot.

"What brings you to the Shinigami Realm? Surely you aren't foolish enough that you take a life, take _my_ life?" Lux laughed, his bones creaking with the effort of the sound, the sand beneath his feet rustling at the noise.

"Then you must be Pride." Deth's third face smiled, moving to face the Shinigami, his fragile human legs swinging beneath the ivory bones of the forgotten beasts. The wind began to whisper and in the distance a faint light could be seen.

"They say no creature can outwit Death." It was a challenge that Lux spoke of, watching the human-garbed death with his own scarlet eyes. "But then, I suppose you have never come across the likes of me before."

"The clever do not try." The silver watch fell from his pockets to the sea of earth below, the corpses of forgotten Shinigami who had seen his eyes once before and never lived to tell the tale. "For a gambler cannot always pay his debts."

"But what could kill me? I have no interest in humanity, I have eluded boredom; death has no power over me." Pride opened his arms to face what storm death might throw at him. Deth cocked his head, analyzing the Shinigami before revealing his demon's smile.

"Then I bring you a gift." Deth motioned to the watch that had fallen from his pocket; the silver glinted in the faint light of what was to come and what had already past.

"I bring you time, for down there." He pointed below him, towards humanity and their toil. "They have far too much; they squander it, but an immortal such as yourself might have some use for it." In the Shinigami's hand, it looked tarnished—an inexpensive gift, surely, little more than human rubbish that could easily have been thrown away.

"It is an expensive gift; do not take it lightly," cautioned Deth with a smile. A carrion crow perched upon the bones of the dead; the dust caught innocently between the folds of his clothes, the ground bones of the dead.

It weighed light as a feather in his hand, and Lux forgot the gift he had won. He had forgotten that Deth could be patient when it suited him. He watched as his fellow gods of death drifted in and out of life, falling to love, falling to gambling, to the ever-present boredom. And somewhere, the forgotten watch began to tick.

He felt the world pressing down against him, heavier with each moment. The silver watch grew more tarnished by the instant; the hands ticked away so slowly. Lux tried to destroy it. He dropped it in the human realm, but it came back to him—for it was his gift, and humans had time enough already.

He felt the ticking like a heartbeat in his skull, always pounding, moving in that eternal dance—a waltz upon the midnight hour, until it stopped completely. Deth's gloved hand awaited him. "I've come for your debts," he said, his white gloves black with the dust of all those who had dared to oppose him.

"But it was a gift, you said it was a gift!" Lux cried, throwing the watch at Deth, watching as it landed in his outstretched hand.

"I never said it came without a price. You made a gamble and you lost; I've come for your debts." Deth wound the watch with precision, blowing the dust out of the gears so that it might come back to life.

"My debts—I owe you nothing!"

"Everyone owes me something. Even you, proud as you are, owe me your world. You thrive on the death of others, and you yourself called me death; you live upon my work. Who are you to deny me my wishes? I made your Notebook, I fashioned your bones, I wrought your still heart. You have not the will to deny me, for even Pride falls to the hand of Light."

It was said that Deth conquered even the proudest of kings, for he could take their world from them, and without time, they were merely dust in the creases of his gloves.

* * *

He sat at the end of all roads, and that was where she found him, the human child who attempted to steal his heart. He polished his watch as he waited for her; the incessant heartbeat of the gears fluttered in his gloved hand, not covered in blood but a fine dust unseen by human eyes. For humans could not even see the bones of their reapers, blind as they were.

"I know you from somewhere," she said to him, watching the way he gazed off into the dusk, the red of the bleeding sun trapped within his eyes. For death was perpetually dying—he was constantly filled with the light of the world's end, the reflected light of the sun.

"I was there at your beginning—" he said, turning toward her, the red glow lost in his eyes as he held out his gloved hand towards her, "—and I am here at your end. Are you coming?"

"No, I don't want to go yet, I can't go yet, I have things to do…" She began to trail off, backing away from his eyes and his outstretched hand, backing off into the world of the living, the world of true sunlight.

"It's not fair, is it? But it's your time, and I can't wait for you to make up your mind."

"Please, let me say goodbye—to my family, to my friends."

"Everyone wants to say goodbye. Why should you get the chance?"

"I need to live!"

"What for?"

She paused, thinking, searching, and finally settling upon what human frailty she had always clung to.

"For love. Surely death himself has loved, has longed for love. Surely you can understand the need to hold someone close. You must understand—you are human, after all."

She reached towards death's cold heart and found only the abyss, for his heart had long since fallen to dust. Mortal hearts were a frailty he could not afford.

"What on earth gave you that idea?"

* * *

"Dear Jesus, you think he couldn't get any creepier." Matt shivered, searching in his pockets for loose change that might buy him cigarettes. Marcus, who had the unfortunate job of making sure Matt didn't start any brawls, shrugged.

"I mean, damn, he's like the antichrist 'round this place. Look at that whore over there—she's been giving us the evil eye for the past ten minutes. And nobody here knows what a fucking cigarette is, Jesus Christ." Matt waved a gloved hand in the air, signaling towards a vender who was indeed giving them the evil eye, pointing to the cigarette in his mouth and rubbing his fingers together. Marcus felt like drinking, but then Marcus always felt like drinking. Standing next to Matt, he really felt like drinking.

"See what I mean? Can't even get a pack of smokes. It's all his fault, the bastard. He doesn't even come and I still can't get my fucking cigarettes."

The vender continued to ignore Matt with almost as much skill as members of Light's A-team (as much as they hated to admit it, it truly was Light Yagami's A-team). Marcus was impressed. Of course, that still didn't make him any happier that he got stuck babysitting the fourteen year-old. He swore the straws were rigged. He always managed to get stuck with the red-haired punk.

"Maybe it's a sign from God that your breath reeks," mumbled Marcus, watching as Matt flipped off the vender and proceeded to check the next store for cigarettes and/or porn. Oh, the joys of watching a fourteen-year-old drunkard were growing by the minute.

"What'd you say?"

"I said, you're not black."

Matt picked up a magazine, flipped through the pictures. He sighed when he couldn't find anything in the least entertaining. (The porn industry, surprisingly, had been on the rise after the masked apocalypse. For some reason there was a devoted section of the population that enjoyed masked erotica—it fit nicely into the BDSM section).

"Well, you know he's a fucking whack job. Hell, he tried to blow your brains out."

Marcus shrugged, remembering the incident a little differently than Matt described it. Perhaps 'blowing brains out' was a bit too graphic to describe the situation. But yes, he supposed it worked, in a metaphorical sense.

"You're right, Matt, he's nuts." Marcus sounded defeated, remembering the look in those golden eyes. The venders knew, the whole world knew—that's why they were afraid of them, that's why they whispered when the A-team passed through, that's why they stared at them as if they were monsters.

As if they were Light Yagami himself.

"Just get your crap so we can get out of here." Marcus threw his change towards the vendor, dragging Matt and his poorly photographed porn with him. He was tired of the world staring at him, not as if he were a rat—he had always been a rat—but as if he were something worse.

"Hey, man! Don't be an asshole!" Matt struggled back, thinking of the cigarettes he had not managed to replenish and the beer he had forgotten to purchase.

But Marcus wouldn't listen this time. He had seen his own reflection far too many times in strangers' eyes. No, he wouldn't come back again. It wasn't worth the memories.

* * *

"Why are you here?" Light Yagami asked his reflection. His golden eyes caught upon the silver of his dog-tag, the name inscribed deep within its flesh. He often found himself staring at those characters, wondering which human they were describing. Were they describing what he had been, the wounded child? Or were they words of something else? Was that the name of his stone-eyed reflection?

"Because I was broke, and the military seemed like a good enough option." The dark-haired woman did not attempt to hide her evasion of the question, but then, the raven wasn't always known for its honesty.

"But where will you go?" He dropped the dog tag from his hands, feeling the chain rub against his neck as it swung back and forth. "When the twilight has ended?" He did not turn to see her, for hers would be a pale resemblance of a face, a mask of plaster.

"Back home, I guess. America, maybe. Japan, maybe. I'll get there when I get there." But the watch was ticking away in his pocket; the silver watch with black arrows was ticking away…

"Do you find it hard to look at me?" This time he did turn to her, away from his memories and thoughts, to see the fear in her eyes. She did fear him, he knew—he could see it—and yet she stayed with him to keep guard from the shadows and demons in his amber eyes.

"No." Brief was best, for it left no room for doubt. No room for her eyes to trace his scars, to see the blood coating the grey of his uniform, to watch his bitter eyes. She saved herself from the torture of having to _see_.

"The others do, all of them." He paused remembering the last expression he saw in the doctor's eyes, the pen knife tangled in his hand. "They run from me—they run from my scars and my pale skin." Here, his gloved hand reached tentatively up to trace one of the many pale scars that decorated his face.

"And I know why they do: Because mine is the only human face left in the world. I am humanity. I am humanity's torn, worn, deformed face, and they hate me for it."


	37. Casual Conversations

A/N: I'm sorry that this is nearly indecipherable madness, but all of our sanity anchors are steadily getting more and more insane so it's becoming difficult to find a POV that actually makes sense. It's like that part in Hamlet where Ophelia out-crazies Hamlet, except in our version, Horatio decides to join in.

In the meantime, feel free to review to express your anger and confusion.

* * *

**CASUAL CONVERSATIONS**

The mirror on my wall  
Casts an image dark and small  
But I'm not sure at all it's my reflection.  
-_Flowers Never Bend With the Rainfall, Simon and Garfunkle_

"This isn't a war." The journalist didn't look to see if the demon was watching, to see if his blue eyes were trained on the weary figure of the writer or on some distant future. God or devil: Neal no longer cared; he no longer knew what disguise he was wearing and couldn't force himself to look long enough.

"It's not a war; it's something else. Something worse." War had purpose, war had ideals and motives—it had a reason behind it. What did this have? It had a Shinigami, that's what it had. It had a being, it had a thing caught between angel and devil, it had his blue eyes.

He had always thought it was the documentary—he had thought it was because of him. He was wrong. He could see that now. Everything was wrong: he was the distraction, he was the red herring. He was what the war was supposed to be about; or at least that's what everyone had thought. That's what they had told themselves when they could come up with nothing else.

It's what he had thought; it's what he had thought for years. It was still true, but only partly true—because then there was the Shinigami. The Shinigami that had always been there, his blue eyes watching every move, placing every piece upon the chessboard. It was the Shinigami's game, and no one was winning.

"You don't want to win." Neal finally turned to look at the childish demon, the thing that hid behind the masks the world had given him: divinity, humanity, war, death, and those wide blue eyes.

"Your world needs someone to curse, Nealan." The Shinigami finally spoke, sounding neither like a demon or a human. The Shinigami had always been wavering between God and devil, though he resembled neither. "Whether it's me or you, L or Yagami, they need someone to throw bricks at. I give them the reason."

"There is no reason. It's an illusion. You have no motives, no goal—nothing that drives you. You are neither God nor the devil."

The thing turned to look at him, its eyes baleful, the blue glinting like silver. The god of death began to smile.

"As I said, it's you who needs someone to curse, someone to worship and condemn. But you and I will both remember who picked up that Notebook and who decided to use it."

Neal interrupted before the white-haired child could continue. "I never used it! I never wrote a word in the damn thing."

"Oh no, you did something far worse. You revealed it. Did you ever imagine, with all your hopes and dreams, that people wanted to know? That they were merely the food source for a few apathetic gods of death?" He laughed, the mention of his own people causing his grin to widen and his eyes to sharpen.

"You need me, just like the world needs you, because without me, how would you ever face your guilt?"

"Yes, we have our own gods and demons, just like you."

The demon's bitter tone was a familiar one; it was the one that painted the grim nights, the one that haunted his nightmares and dreams, the one that distorted reality and turned his life into a vision of masked death. Neal had always been able to recognize that tone of voice.

"I didn't ask." He never asked. Why bother? The answers were always backwards, riddled and confused, mumbled and jumbled into a mess of philosophy and reality. No, he never bothered to ask; he merely listened to the twisted path of the answer and tried his best to avoid choosing at the fork in the road.

"We're not so very different from you, in that respect. The difference lies in the fact that we have never doubted our gods. They have always been there and they have always been present. Even as we curse them and rot into our graves, we know who to aim the curses at."

Lost in the dark—without a thread, without a mark. He never asked because, as fortune had it, he never particularly enjoyed the answers. The Shinigami was human enough. The eyes may betray him, but only if he looked too closely.

"There is our creator, then there is our death. That's all." The words drifted back in the labyrinth from which they came, the omniscient child continued to watch the inner workings of his not-war, tracking the movements of his not-quite enemies.

That's all. As if he had asked for conclusion, as if he had ever asked for answers. Or at least he had not asked for them since he had been a young man, since he had been a fool, since he had first held the notebook. He had not asked for answers since then, because he knew they came with too hefty a price.

(And he still remembered the Shinigami, with his wide blue eyes and his ghostly face framed by white hair. "The price is misfortune, the consequence is death." He hadn't asked the question then either, but now he knew what the question should have been and he wished he had understood sooner.)

"I suppose it's the same for us, then." The present god who chose to be absent, the ever-present death who never chose to leave. He could see it; he had been living with it long enough. He could see its blue eyes.

"If you have a god, I have yet to meet him." The demon sighed, his bandaged hands reaching for the black notebook hanging at his side.

"Kira—he isn't a god, then?"

The blue eyes glared at the sheer arrogance, the assumption, the presumptuous nature of the escaped questions. The wrong questions—why were they always the wrong questions?

"He was a man. Now he's a corpse."

* * *

The fledgling Shinigami sat together around the gambling pits, waiting for inspiration to strike. With nowhere to turn, they turned to guilt. Where to lay the guilt? Because it had to be somebody's fault, after all. The older ones were dead or dying; they wouldn't talk, and what information they gave was next to useless. They had inherited the mess, and they wanted to know on whose head they could lay the blame.

"So who do we blame for this mess? Ryuk had the idea… Isn't he the one that started this?" asked the first Shinigami, looking around to his brothers for approval. They shook their heads grimly, looking towards each other.

"Yeah, but he wasn't the one who actually dropped it. He just had the idea. No, the real fault belongs to Sidoh, who dropped it in the first place."

A different Shinigami interrupted, this one's eyes freshly bandaged after too many hours staring at the mortal sun. "But he didn't actually get the Notebook himself. Wasn't his book—it was the human-looking one's. What's his face, Achos or something."

"Even after they dropped it, though, Kira picked it up. Kira got people looking for it, got people to notice it."

"But then it was Adessi who made the video."

"Yeah, but after that, Achos again. He went down there and stirred things up, kept the mask thing going. Killing everyone off. I say it's his fault."

"Ryuk was the first."

"What about Adessi? The humans blame Adessi, you know."

"And what about the King? What about him? Sitting on his throne all day long, never hear a word from Grandfather. Let the whole thing happen I tell you. You didn't hear him saying anything when the notebook was stolen, did you?"

"It's Ryuk's fault—I'm telling you, it's his fault!"

"Adessi. Everyone knows it's Adessi!"

"Sidoh's stupidity."

"Achos's Notebook, his problem."

"Ryuk's ideas."

"The King's silence."

"Kira's ambition."

Ryuk. Sidoh. Achos. Kira. Adessi. King.

And while the squabbled amongst themselves, they failed to notice the blue eyes in the distance, peering like stars down upon their circled arguments, the unlucky bones of the long dead animals, and the gambler's dice.

* * *

Naomi Misora's shadow had wings of a raven and the smile of a crescent moon. Stolen jewelry decorated his black and shriveled fingers; a silver heart hung from his ear. He grinned down upon her, casting a shadow far longer than himself.

"You said you came to watch the show," she said.

It laughed in response, and she wondered if it was affirmation or something else. Irony, perhaps—the world seemed to be full of it, of late. Full of lies and half-truths, but irony above it all. She could understand that.

"I didn't think that gods of death would care." She had assumed they wouldn't be watching him as well, watching as he slid down the crevasse. No, not slid—jumped, dived… he was going in head-first and leaving the rest of them to watch.

"Most don't." It (he?) chose not to elaborate, leaving her to draw her own befuddled conclusions.

"And yet you came down for a first row seat." Somehow, in spite of everything, in spite of its starvation and its damnation, it had come down to watch a single man find his way into the dark. What made Yagami so damn special? (She knew the answer to that, though; she had known it for a while. For who else dived into the dark?)

"Consider it a compliment. If you want. You mortals aren't usually worth our time."

She knew, she could see it. The gods never had time for anyone. They had been absent all her life and only now did they appear, when she needed them least. She had never asked for the presence of a god.

"So then why not talk to him directly—why through me?" Why not become his hallucination? Why not become one more image in the mirror, one more wavering line between reality and dream? Why not?

"He isn't dying fast enough."

She wasn't afraid to die. She had been ready when Raye had gone—or at least she had been ready to conquer death. She had been ready when she signed up for the war. She had always known she was unlucky; they were all unlucky. Why else would they wear fake faces like they did?

"Fun. I never expected a God of Death to be preoccupied with fun." But what had she expected, the grim reaper? Had she expected something serious, something that respected humanity, something that both hated and loved them? Why should she have expected such a gift when she had received none before?

She should have known when Kira first arrived, she should have known then. But it still hurt to know that they're practically worthless, that they're really only a source of amusement. It hurt more than she expected it to.

"Did you expect me to be after your soul?"

It had a point, and that probably hurt the most.

"Frankly, yes, I would have been happier if you had something more sinister than fun on your agenda."

Naomi decided that some things didn't matter in the end. Humans and Shinigami were only an insignificant few.

* * *

"I am not war. Neither am I plague, nor famine nor drought."

The third face of death stood before the world, a silver watch in his hand, his black gloves hiding the stains of blood. His amber eyes locked upon the crowd, watching as they gathered before him (beneath him). They looked upon him in horror and anger, for he had stolen their children away, he had burned their crops, he had caused their disease. His hands were dripping with their blood.

"I am all of these things."

The mothers were crying for their dead. His amber eyes continue to watch them, watching for any sign of rebellion. His hands were covered in their blood.

"You're death!" they cried, as if it were an insult. He cocked his head, his eyes turning to the watch in his hand, his people gathered beneath (before) him. It hardly mattered that they came with torches in their hands.

"Yes, I am death. I have always been death. I have always been here, in your homes, in your fields, in your taverns and your villages. I haunt peasant and king alike. I am everywhere and nowhere, and none can escape me."

"You've killed our children!"

"And I will kill your children again. I kill everyone's children. Does it really matter, though? I kill equally. I come for all your souls. But look at you—you take only the lives you dislike. And really, that's no way to live. I come bearing you a gift."

The audience stared in growing horror. One brave soul began to laugh, falling into hysterics beneath death's dark, human gaze. "And what great boon would death dare to deliver us?"

"I give you equality. King or queen, merchant or peasant…. Only nothingness awaits you. I give you time, just as I take it away. I give you a way that is fair. There is no luck, no fate or fortune. Only nothingness. And it is the greatest thing I have to give."


	38. Off to See the Wizard

**OFF TO SEE THE WIZARD**

Why you all so happy?

Because our lives suck.  
-_It Sucks to be Me, Avenue Q_

"You know who I hate?" No one answered Nathanial, but he was used to that. Hell, he spent most of his time talking to a radio named Humphrey (or was it Humbert?), and when he didn't talk to the radio he talked to corpses whose money he had conveniently swiped.

"I hate L. I hate him. Hate. Double hate. Triple hate. LOATHE!"

This got their attention. He was actually somewhat shocked by this because when he told Humperdink, the radio hadn't even bothered to make a bloop of approval. Naomi actually managed to look up from the spoon she had been using to examine the ominous space of air behind her. Matsuda's jaw dropped (lower than it already had been: it had been on the table before; now it was on the floor). Mogi managed a blink. Or maybe that was just the breeze—but Nathanial swore he had moved.

Nathanial looked around to make sure Light Yagami wasn't in hearing distance, or at least wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention. Coast was clear; Captain-san looked like a coma victim.

"We have orders."

This time Matsuda fell off his chair in horror, Marcus took a swig of the nearest hand sanitizer (they had ran out of all other forms of alcohol), Naomi dropped her spoon, and Mogi blinked once again. Mogi blinked twice.

"Apparently Headquarters has heard of our success…"

"But what have we been doing?" asked Matsuda, struggling to get back into some sort of sitting position after throwing himself so gracelessly onto the floor.

"And they want us to break into the Kira Castle, bust out L, and kill people or something. But the bust out L is the important bit."

Before Nat really hadn't minded L, but now, oh now, the jerk was going to pay. He ruined the strike. Now they had to go back to doing nothing if they wanted to keep striking. There was no way he would ever go back to having Light glare down his neck for lack of victims.

"What about the local soldiers? I mean, weren't we not even supposed to be stationed here?" Matsuda asked again, once more believing that logic would somehow solve his problems and not kill him off in a suicide attempt.

"Fuck L." Matt ground his cigarette into the dirt beneath his heel. He spit on top of it as if to reaffirm the crude statement.

"I thought he was dead," muttered the dark-haired woman softly, not appearing to look at any of them and simply watching the walls of the tent with a blank-eyed expression that spoke of death and the dying.

"Well, he's not. Or perhaps he is. No one cares. Or at least, no one sane cares anymore."

"I say fuck him. Who the hell cares, anyway? He's a goddamn bastard who deserves to rot in hell, and well, Kira's fucking prison is close enough." Matt crossed his arms in defiance, his fourteen-year-old (fifteen-year-old? How long had they even been out here?) pride tingling behind the safety blanket of his mask.

The room was enveloped by silence as they all thought back on what they knew of the detective and what they thought would be worth saving. In the end all that was left of their musings were the words of the raven's reflection locked upside down within the spoon.

"You humans. Sometimes you sound just like Shinigami."

The Death God cackled.

* * *

"So I guess he's not dead, then. It's been a long time, hasn't it? Since we've heard anything, I mean. After Kira—well, he kind of disappeared too…" Matsuda mused, leaning back against his arms and staring at Mogi.

The two sat outside, staring at the red sky and wandering back through memories to the days when the police system was competent. Mogi said nothing in response, preferring to let Matsuda reach the conclusions for him.

"I guess we all just assumed that Kira got him. It seemed so obvious. Everyone else is dead—why should he have lived? It was a miracle you and I got out, but then again I guess we didn't; we'll have to see. Later. When this is all over."

_When this is all over_. When we're all dead. When it's our turn for our bodies to litter the ground. When Kira finds us.

"I always thought he died first, you know. I just assumed—no, not assumed. I hoped he died first. After all, I think of all of us he was the one who deserved it the most."

After all, in the end it was all L's fault.

* * *

"Fuck L." Matt kicked at the earth beneath his feet, finally alone with his own thoughts. Only the shadow of his captain lingered in the tent. But Light Yagami wasn't important—not like that bastard L, not like Mello and Near.

Not like everyone who had abandoned him. Goddammit, why did it keep hurting? L should have been dead. Hell, Matt had prayed the bastard was dead. Where most people asked for blessings or for prosperity, Matt had asked for L's death. He had assumed God had been listening that time. After all, L wasn't so fucking different from the rest of them.

"It's not fair, it's not fucking fair!" Matt let out a cry of outrage before collapsing onto the ground. Life wasn't fair, but this was beyond unfairness.

It should have been him. Anyone could see Near was a fucking robot. And Mello, ha, Mello. Mello was a whore, always had been—he relied too much on his goddamn emotions and look where it got him. Probably dead. After all, Matt had been praying for his death as well.

He was the best option. He was the most stable—maybe not the smartest, maybe not the cleverest, but that had never mattered. He was supposed to win. He was supposed to beat both of them.

Of course he had known, later, when they began to be separated off, that he wasn't in the running anymore. And that was fine for a while, because Mello was second too and second wasn't so fucking different from third. It was okay because L was wrong, and he'd pay for it because he was too fucking stupid to think.

But now it didn't matter, and Mello, that bastard, had left him.

"It should have been me. They didn't deserve it. No, they fucking deserve each other. All three of them, L, Mello, Near! They all should have a fucking love fest together." He looked at the calluses on his hands. He worked so hard, and for what? What good had it done him? They left him, they both fucking left him.

He had always thought, he had always assumed…

(That's the problem; you can't fucking assume anything.)

It didn't matter if they were dead or alive, it didn't matter if God didn't believe in answering prayers, it never fucking mattered.

"Third. Always third in the running, third to the title, third to L. And look where it got us." He was laughing now, because it was fucking hilarious, what it all came to.

Nothing mattered because everyone was dead or as good as dead; they had all died the day they looked at him and decided that he wasn't good enough. Not good enough for their little club of achievers, their do-gooders, their nobodies, their corpses. Because that's all they were now, just some fucking corpses.

"Goddammit! It should have been me, I should have been L…"

And now here he was, trying to find them so that he could spit in their faces, spit on their graves. (But he hadn't found them. Instead he found Yagami, Yagami with eyes far colder than the glare of L's computer screen, colder than the feeling of betrayal as Mello turned from him at those orphanage gates…)

He'd show them, he'd show all of them. It didn't matter if they were dead or alive, if L was a corpse or corpse-bound. It didn't matter.

(When Matt stood to leave the tent he failed to notice the golden eyes that watched the anger in his steps and the betrayal etched on his fragile heart.)

* * *

Naomi gripped the spoon in her trembling fingers, rising to leave the suffocating tent, just like everyone else. Everyone who knew the name was more than just a letter, everyone who had been touched by his far-reaching shadow. They all longed to leave, to get out, to find a place to think.

Naomi walked past Matt's bitter cursing, past the silence of Mogi and Matsuda, past the blank, scarred face of Light Yagami. When it was just her and the horizon she stopped, looking past the sky for the freshly dead that they had been too lazy to bury. The shinigami floated behind her, jack-o-lantern grin on its pale face.

The realization came with the spoon she had dropped on the ground, back in the tent when all the mismatched dots had connected into a constellation. "It's like the spoon."

(The spoon dug into her hands, marking the lines where it had touched…)

"Eh?" The god of death twisted behind her, dropping down so it might rest its feet on the ground.

"Everything's just a reflection in the spoon." She looked over toward the Shinigami, whose grinning expression hinted at misunderstanding but eyes said something far darker than stupidity. Her death was a being with raven's feathers and a heart dangling from its ear.

"It's twisted and warped into a deformity of light, flipped upside down until we barely recognize what might have been, the truth of that fragile reflection." Her smile was bitter and she felt for just a moment that perhaps she understood the being that was staring back at her, a black notebook hanging delicately at its side.

"Like L. We all thought he was dead because that was what the reflection told us. We all saw his corpse in our heads and we thought, good, at least he got what he deserved. But we never thought to turn around and look at the L sitting perfectly healthy at our feet—because he's always been there. We just never bothered to look."

She raised the spoon to her face, watching as the gray eyes were flipped and stretched, blinking back at her slowly. The smile was gone from her face.

"It's all just a twisted, warped, upside-down reflection. That's all."

The dark, cracked fingers of the Shinigami reached down to pluck the spoon from her fingers. He brought it up to his ever-smiling face. "Huh. I look the same." It cocked its head to the side, and the heart dangling at his ear twitched ever so slightly.

"Here, come look." It motioned for her to stand behind him, to see the perfect reflection within the bent silver. "You see? Just the same."

"Just the same," she repeated softly, unaware of the numbers that hovered above her head, ticking away into oblivion.

* * *

**Two things. Firstly, SMORS IS FINISHED. WOOHOO. Now it's just a matter of… editing, rewriting, and posting the next 20k words.**

**Secondly. We recently had a semi-might-have-been-a-flame-but-really-wasn't review. We're going to count it as a flame anyway and use it as an excuse to declare a flame competition. The winner gets a complimentary piece of… self-produced fanart….? And the glory of knowing that they are more brutal and bloodthirsty than everyone else. It's the sentiments that count!**

**For example:**

"**Dear Author,**

**This story, while containing an interesting premise, is botched to the point that there is very little purpose in reading past the first eleven chapters of pure hell. Your summary is vague and conveys none of the actual details of the plot. After reading twenty chapters, I've come to realize that this is because there is no great overarching plot—there is, rather, madness. You introduce your story with an Evanescence quote (WHY?) and proceed to give the reader a vague scene that doesn't even seem to connect to any other portion of the story. You then allow Light Yagami to whine in first person for a good ten chapters of unnecessary drama. For nearly twelve chapters, the reader is left yawning over the injustices of Light Yagami's petty life. Misa is not that dull: I don't care how much subjective narration there might be. I feel as if you began this and then halfway through decided to abandon your original plot, stayed up till four a.m. rewriting the story halfway through, and then became existentialist—all without understanding Sartre in the slightest. **

**Your imagery is ridiculous (Sayu is eaten by a dragon. Let me repeat. Eaten. by. a dragon.) and your dialogue is often over the top and serves no great purpose. I find myself distantly amused by the melodrama with which you present your argument, an argument supporting general chaos and the purposeless of the universe. The holes you attempt to dig yourself out of also make me giggle. By the present chapters the reader is left so confused and bewildered from the senselessness of the prior chapters that no one has any idea what is going on—and not in a way that can be enjoyed, or that at least serves some greater purpose. **

**What potential your universe might have held has been ripped into shreds by your over-emphasis on characters who don't matter (Mello and Near—does anyone give a damn?) and your brief introduction and dismissal of characters who were said to be integral (L disappeared after chapter five… Is he back yet?). I only am left with the feeling of vague disappointment that someone like Silver Pard didn't have this idea first."**

**ONE TWO THREE FOUR I DECLARE A FLAME WAR**


	39. October

**A/N:** Flaming, we are disappoint much. Do better next time or no self-produced fan art for you. Seriously, we're winning right now and that's rather sad.

(Also, thanks to you guys who read and reviewed seriously; you are appreciated and remembered. BUT FLAME NEXT TIME.)

* * *

**OCTOBER**

Felt it in my fist, in my feet, in the hollows of my eyelids  
Shaking through my skull, through my spine and down through my ribs  
No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone  
No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden  
_-Blinding, Florence + the Machine_

Sometimes the Shinigami liked to imagine the seconds dwindling away in her lifespan, and sometimes when she'd look back up at him, he was sure that she could see the numbers' reflections in his eyes.

Back before the masks it had been easy. Ryuk found that it was more fun this way, guessing the lifespan like placing a bet on a racehorse. You had a general idea, but even then it could surprise you.

Still, this time—even without the visible numbers—this time, he knew they were dropping, and dropping fast.

She was interesting; he gave her that, even if she was dying. Oh yes, Naomi Misora was dying, fading out of existence into a place where not even the soul remained. The numbers were steadily dropping out of existence, one by one, until one day soon there'd be nothing left.

He remembered how she'd look up at him with those accusing silver eyes, a small smile on her face. He remembered her arms crossed beneath her head as she stared him straight in the face, grin matching grin, eyes bright like stars.

Yes, Ryuk admitted to himself with amused chuckles, he liked Naomi Misora almost as much as he liked Light Yagami. But priorities were priorities, and besides—what fun would it be if he ruined the surprise?

"Do you ever think about your own death?" she asked him one night. The tent's walls breathed in and out with the wind. At first he didn't understand the question, and he explained that only idiots and saps died in the Shinigami Realm.

"Then what happened to everyone else?" she responded, looking from side to side as if to make out the invisible Shinigami. Eventually she shrugged and turned her attention back to him. "This whole disaster," she pointed at her mask, "will kill all of us, even Shinigami."

Ryuk could remember laughing.

"I'm not dead yet," he said, still smiling down at her.

"Not yet." Naomi smiled in return—a self-aware, bitter smile that belonged solely to her, a smile that would soon be left for the crows. Soon she would be little more than a body, mangled and distorted, with vacant silver eyes.

"But even Gods of Death die sometime. You will too, someday." Here, her eyes closed, and though she didn't mention the name, Ryuk could swear that Light's scarred face was lingering in the silence between them. She breathed in the dust and the fear that came with her own death.

"What about when you die, Misora Naomi?" Ryuk asked between bouts of laughter, watching as her expression darkened and her fingers clutched at the bed sheets. Her eyes were still closed—as if by simply closing her eyes he disappeared, ceased to exist, and was no longer the carrion crow hovering above her.

"I'll die when I die." Her voice rang out sharply in the empty darkness; her eyes flashed open in time to catch Ryuk's hands reaching towards her. She rolled to the side and curled in on herself.

"But do you ever think about it?" Ryuk prodded, his fingers falling upon the bare skin of her arm, watching as the goose bumps began to rise. In his mind the numbers kept on falling.

"Yes," she said simply with nothing more to elaborate on, falling as silent as all the other corpses, the quiet, boring corpses left on that frozen plane.

"Then you must know that once you're gone he'll fall apart." Ryuk watched as she turned back towards him, her eyes, like a northern sea, iced over, and her face a stony mask of impassivity. For once, Ryuk couldn't help but wonder what her face looked like beneath that cloth.

"You underestimate him; he's already lost everything."

Ryuk laughed and reached out for her with charred, skeletal fingers. He didn't contradict her, but both of them could see the lie hanging in the air, dangling delicately from a fraying red thread—so easy to sever.

Naomi turned her head towards the door and spoke softly. "You know, if I die it will be very difficult for you to find apples."

It wasn't quite an attempt at persuasion, not quite begging, but it was close enough to make Ryuk's grin grow wider. He wondered if he should ask her if she thought that was convincing enough to make him change his mind. Probably not. She probably thought it was worth a try, at any rate.

Yes, he liked Naomi Misora, more than he had thought he would. He considered himself lucky that she had been the one he'd found, and not one of the others.

She thought that she knew where the death blow would fall. She had her eyes on Ryuk and Ryuk had his eyes on her, but she had it all wrong because even though neither of them could see the numbers, Ryuk could feel them dropping.

No, Naomi didn't need Ryuk's help for that.

Even from the few weeks he had floated behind her, he could tell she was changing. She had a jagged look to her now—like a cloth doll with thin, dangling limbs and button eyes. Her words came less readily. More than once the other humans had caught her with spoons and apples in her pockets. She was slipping. One day she'd fall and not get up.

* * *

Catherine had grown to like the team, perhaps even to love them. It was like family, but without the awkward relatives that you were never supposed to mention outside of family reunions. She had come to care for them more than she ever imagined was possible—even Matt. She enjoyed Matt's suffering the way she enjoyed making a nice crispy apple pie.

Of course, she decided after the fact, everything changed after the order to find L. That was the beginning. While it wasn't noticeable at first, that's when everything started slip-slide down into hell.

Like that feeling when something's burning in the oven and you know there's no going back; you can smell the smoke before its skin becomes charred and black…

They came to their decision the same day they heard the terrible news. After about two hours of tearing their hair out individually (except for Catherine, who didn't know what an L had to do with anything, and Light, who appeared to be just as insane and unflappable as ever), they calmed down and decided to find a solution.

"You know they're going to make us go after him when they find out we don't care," Nathanial brought up as he placed an icepack on his head, convinced a bump was going to swell out of his cranium. (Matt had thrown a bottle of wine. It had missed.)

"You assume they have the resources to find out if we're doing anything," Marcus pointed out.

"Well, obviously they had the resources to find out we had been marauding about the countryside without any orders. If we continue to do that, they're going to notice and start wondering why we haven't gone to find L." Nathanial sighed and looked over to Light. "Please tell me you've thought of some brilliant way to not get us all killed."

Light looked over, his golden eyes blank. With a curious slowness, he began to smile. The rest of the A-team blinked, looked at each other, and decided to ignore the fact that Light Yagami had become creepy as hell. Catherine couldn't help but notice how strange he looked without a mask—like a person without a face. His eyes were so much brighter than everyone else's.

And the smoke began to trickle out of the oven, almost unseen amidst the bustle of the kitchen.

"On to the next person that comes up with a brilliant insane plan that can potentially save our asses." Nathanial looked pointedly over at Naomi, who was busy looking at her reflection in a spoon. Eventually she looked up and realized that they expected her to do something.

"Am I honorary captain now?" Naomi asked, brushing back her dark hair and looking over at Catherine with a smile. It was then that Catherine was struck by how tired she looked, how much more tired than anyone else, and she remembered that it was always Naomi who stayed behind with Light when everyone else left him to die.

"No, I am honorary captain. I'm just too lazy to think of a plan myself."

Naomi frowned, looking back at the spoon and narrowing her eyes. "I think we should do it," she said decisively.

"By it, you mean kill everyone, right?" Nathanial hazarded. "Or at least kill Matt?"

"You guys are all fucking douche-bags!" Matt responded, shouting over the sounds of Final Fantasy IV on his Gameboy DS. Marcus looked over at him with tired eyes and let out a long, wishful sigh.

"No," Naomi said, placing the spoon into her pocket and looking at each member of the team with eyes as cold as gun bullets. "We should do what they ask."

The room fell silent. Catherine watched as the group's expressions turned somber and ashen. Funny how much emotion a cloth mask could show. They'd learned how to read the eyes and the body language—the faces may have been gone, but the expressions remained. In the air, she could almost taste the despair.

She then turned to Light, whose face showed nothing but whose eyes burned brightly. They locked on the apple cores crowded beneath Naomi's feet, then flicked up to Naomi. His face was still passive but his eyes filled with pale fire—no longer the oven fire but something ancient and cold.

They were so used to his silence that when he spoke, they shuddered. "I thought you were afraid of the dark."

It was as if Catherine and the others had been thrown into the background and only Light, Naomi, and the apple cores remained. Light's eyes narrowed as Naomi looked back at him, gripping the spoon in silence.

Catherine remembered that before, when he had a hidden face like everyone else, his smiles had simply been arrogant and smug. Now there was no arrogance in his smile—only the crow sitting in the barren tree waiting to drink the blood of the dying man. His scars stretched across his face as his smile grew, and in that moment Catherine realized that Light was no longer human: he was a ghost of war.

He spoke again.

"You do realize that if we do this thing asked of us, we will die."

"Light, haven't I told you that we are already dead?" Naomi's eyes almost smiled.

Light leaned back in his chair; his dog tag glinted in the dim sunlight. "So then, Misora-san, how exactly are we to accomplish this?" His tone changed. The shadow of the room lifted and it suddenly seemed like an ordinary conversation, as if the death sentence had passed them over and drifted to some other poor, unsuspecting victim.

Catherine remembered that she had breathed a sigh of relief. She had been too hasty. The smoke was still rising; they had simply forgotten about it.

Naomi turned her attention to the entire group, her silver eyes widening as if she had just realized they were real, and that there was a world beyond Light's terrifying smiles. Her hands were shaking beneath her dirt-stained gloves, but her voice remained colder than the frozen ground that refused to accept the dead.

"We've been skirting around Kira territory, and we know it. If we want to find this place, we need to stop avoiding it. With luck, they'll be as unorganized as we are and won't even notice. We'll have to travel light and move fast. That means if we bring anyone else with us, we have to find them now, before we leave."

"We start out for towns tomorrow. Remember that we aren't stopping for supplies, but we need other units to come with us. We can't storm them alone, and if this place is as big as we think it is we're going to need a lot of man power." Naomi stood and began to pace. "We'll need more guns, God, we'll need ammunition, food, water—all the essentials. Anything we don't bring, we'll have to steal once we're on the inside."

"So then, this is serious," Nathanial said slowly. "Well, I was getting a bit tired of doing nothing anyway."

"Yes, this is serious." Naomi wasn't looking at any of them anymore, but instead was turned towards the empty space behind her, as if listening to a whisper in her ear.

"I always wanted to die an old man; I just didn't realize how 'young' my old age would be," Marcus stated wearily.

Catherine said nothing. The group came to accept their fatal decision, looking at one another and smiling in jest, watching each other's reactions. Naomi stared at empty air.

Sometimes, Catherine thought that Naomi knew, even then, that she had tied her own noose. A clock ticking, hanging on the walls… She watched its black hands twitch until one day it killed her.

And Light—she couldn't guess what he knew. Sometimes she thought that he knew and other times she didn't, because even Light would have said something if he had known. Even Light, she thought, would have done something if he could have seen the smoke.

But then maybe it was inevitable; maybe he saw it but couldn't tell the difference between the smoke and the clouds. It was all so dark back then.

All paths lead into darkness.


	40. Our Sentimental Friend

**Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews! You guys save plot bunnies, 'cause every time someone reads without reviewing, a plot bunny dies. PETA thanks you for your humanity and wants you to offer you a free copy of that anti-Mario statement piece they think all children should play. Nothing like half-skinned animals bleeding all over the place. Super educational, y'know. (...It's a fun game, though.) /end rant**

**Also, no one entered the flaming contest. WHAT IS THIS TRAVESTY. So I guess it's over and... we won?**

* * *

**OUR SENTIMENTAL FRIEND**

His daughter is twenty years of snow falling  
She's twenty years of strangers looking into each other's eyes  
She's twenty years of clean  
_-20 Years of Snow, Regina Spektor_

Matt hated corpse duty.

With a shovel in hand he attempted to pick at the earth—still so damn hard. It was Spring; the ground wasn't supposed to be goddamn frozen in Spring. He remembered Naomi, when she had handed him the shovel, said something about taking the axe to the frozen ocean or some other philosophical bullshit. All Matt knew was that it sucked.

He couldn't remember who first called it corpse duty. It sure as hell wasn't burial. At the time he thought it was funny, but now it wasn't funny anymore. It just stuck. It was corpse duty—gotta take care of the corpses, can't leave them for the crows. Shovel 'em, and if you can't shovel 'em, you gotta burn the poor bastards.

Matt hated burning them; he always tried the shovel first.

They used to leave them, take off their masks, scavenge their pockets for bullets and other knick-knacks and then just leave them behind. It was a simple process, a cold denial that left them a little saner at the end of the day.

Not anymore, though. He remembered the day when Naomi had started the whole goddamn business.

Most of the decisions fell to Naomi now that Light was fucking insane. Matt thought that he should have been making the decisions—after all he was a lot goddamn smarter than the rest of those bastards, but somehow that stupid bitch had gone and made herself captain anyway.

It was never official, though, not like Light had been. Her name had never been written on paper and no one had ever said anything aloud—but somehow it just happened anyway. One day they woke up, Naomi was in charge, and Light was not. That was all Matt remembered about it.

Still, if you had to choose from the lesser of two evils, then Naomi wasn't nearly as shitty as Light.

She had been looking at the corpses again, sitting on the ground with her legs crossed just looking at all those dead bastards being eaten away by crows. Light was sitting next to her, which was odd in itself since Light mostly kept to himself nowadays. Sometimes, though, if Matt remembered right, sometimes he'd sit by Naomi.

Matt had been passing through, walking to Marcus's tent because that was where all the alcohol probably ended up (or at least should have ended up since the bitch had refused to waste their money on alcohol). He heard her well enough, though.

"We need to bury them," she had said to Light, still looking at those dead men and the fat crows perched on top of them. "They deserve better than this."

Light's bare face always managed to unnerve Matt. It was like looking back four or five years, except no one had a face like Light's. It was like one of Near's jigsaw puzzles, except that someone had spilled water on it just when it was finished, so that when it dried it didn't quite fit anymore because it bulged and curled in on itself. But just by looking at it you knew that at one point it had fit together, and it had been beautiful.

"Wasn't it you who said the ground was too hard for burying?" Light asked her, not looking at her, but watching the scene before him with interest.

"Then we burn them," she said sharply, this time turning to face Light. Matt remembered pausing at those words. "No more corpses, no more abandoned bodies, no more. I've had enough."

"Do you feel the crows pecking out your eyes already, Misora-san?" Light smiled and gave a small laugh.

Matt goddamn hated when he smiled—because those idiotic villagers were right. When Light smiled, he looked like a fucking god of death, like the goddamn grim reaper with the deformed face and the bloodstained fingers. People had always thought that death would be skeletal and hooded—not anymore, though. No, death would be the only one who still had a face. But it wouldn't be a real face—it would be a twisted replication, something that only looked vaguely human. And when it smiled the seams would show right through.

"Sometimes." Naomi's blunt honesty prevailed once again. She shrugged, standing up and brushing off her jacket and pants.

Matt had never realized before just how clean Naomi's uniform was. They all had their blood stains here and there, the few red marks that never quite washed out, but on Naomi's not a dot—simply a grey jacket that looked as if it had been worn to a parade.

It wasn't Light who looked like death: it was her. Light looked like war, bloody-handed, thirsty war, who never bothered to wash out the stains. But she was the opposite—not a spot of blood on her and all the more guilty because of it.

Everyone had blood on their hands, and no one could wash it out.

* * *

If asked to remember his death, Nathanial might not be able to respond—though he remembered the moment well. He just couldn't seem to find the words. He searched for them in the desperate tangle of his memory, but only the images remained, not the words.

He sat in the dark with eyes closed, listening to the drip of water onto the stonework with a half-smile on his face, remembering better times and better friends than solitude.

He had always thought that solitude was only the reflection of the person experiencing it, and that really no one is ever alone. Solitude could be as menacing and as friendly as any other experience. Yet in this place he found that it wasn't true. There was something 'other' in this silence and loneliness, an inhuman presence that waited and listened behind the stone walls.

That's why he searched for the words. Because if he didn't search for the words he'd have to listen to the silence, and somehow, without realizing it, he knew that if he listened to it he'd go mad. You have to distract yourself, or you'll lose everything.

It faded in and out of his world, but a part of it was always there, waiting for him to slip. He had to be very careful.

He didn't know why it was him and not one of the others. Luck, he supposed, but maybe it was fate too. Sometimes he considered them his friends, and he hoped that one day they would find him, and that he could leave this place.

They had gone looking for trouble. He had known it all along, but there was nothing else to look for anymore. They had followed their haunted captain into the dark, and they had done so gladly. Sometimes he regretted this, wishing he had said no, had stolen power from her.

Naomi had been inevitable. He remembered the way she looked before he had come to this place—she had been a ghost. He could count every bone in her hands beneath her white gloves. Light's suffering was flamboyant; he wanted to be noticed. But Naomi was different. She was wasting away slowly: beneath layers and layers she was dying.

He wondered if she was already dead. He would never know.

When he closed his eyes, it wasn't the gunshots he heard or the blood he saw—it was the look of acceptance in her face as they saved themselves. Sometimes he hated them for that, more than anything in the world; sometimes he hated the fact that they had abandoned him to his fate.

He would have done the same thing.

It was easier to watch if he placed Naomi Misora in his shoes, if he saw her in his place instead, watching as she was left behind.

They had tried to be careful, but the closer they got the harder it became; eventually they were going to run into trouble. He remembered the sound of Light's laughter as they were surrounded—they walked right into the trap, and he was laughing. Everything fell to pieces.

Of course there was gunfire. They were used to that. What they weren't used to was leaving one behind. They had no choice, they had to retreat—he knew that. What he hadn't known, and what none of them had known, was that he couldn't make it out. He was unlucky, and when she gave the signal to back out, to fade into the background, she was given a choice.

Nathanial remembered being trapped, out of ammunition, shot in the stomach, reaching back for her. She simply looked at him with pitying, accepting eyes. It was then that he noticed that a laughing, bleeding Light Yagami was already draped over her back.

That was where he lost words. He could never find the words to describe the horrified betrayal when he realized that he would be left behind and that Light Yagami would live. Simply because Naomi had made a choice—not out of any hatred or malice, but because of her priorities.

Passive sacrifice: a familiar, painful acceptance that she could do nothing to save him without leaving Light behind.

That was the cause of Nathanial's death, and even though he knew there was little choice, even though he knew the reason, he couldn't help but hate her.

* * *

Naomi carried the mad god of war on her back. His blood seeped down her collar until it stained her grey jacket scarlet. The Shinigami floated behind her, turning every once in a while to watch the gunshots behind her and the bleeding man she had left behind. When it turned back, it would cackle.

She found that she had nothing left to say to either of them.

God, she was tired. She felt as if she had grown old without noticing. Weren't you supposed to notice when you were dying, when you were fading away into oblivion? Weren't you supposed to feel something? She didn't. She only felt the mind-numbing exhaustion and the strange feeling of relief that it might end soon.

She trudged along, the weight of both their laughter falling down on her, crushing her into the earth until one day she wouldn't be able to get up again. In that moment she knew that she wasn't Light Yagami's friend; they just thought she was because he had no one else.

She had been given a choice. Two helpless men reached out for her, knowing they had no one else left to turn to, each with a desperate glimmer in his eyes. She made the only choice she could, and beneath the mask and the layers, it was tearing her to pieces.

Light Yagami didn't deserve to live; Nathanial didn't deserve to die. She knew that. More than anything in the world, she knew that.

She wondered dimly, wordlessly, if that's what Kira felt like when he looked at all those people. A passive indifference at a fate that can't be helped, like tossing dice—you can't have no number come up, you have to choose someone.

He didn't deserve to be left behind. He didn't deserve to die.

Once they were a safe distance she stopped and set the bleeding Light Yagami on the ground, watching as his eyes closed and his lips parted in a nostalgic smile, like he was dreaming. She turned back to where they had come, her eyes hard as steel as she listened for the gunfire and the death.

"So how does it feel?" The Shinigami folded its wings and crouched on the ground beside the bleeding captain, his skeletal fingers brushing back his thin brown hair and tracing the scars. It beamed up at her.

She said nothing, still watching, waiting for that sign, for something amid the nothingness.

"Well, Naomi?" it asked.

She could have asked for clarification but she knew, she knew what it was asking her. How did it feel to be a murderer? How did it feel to be God? How did it feel to have power over who lived and who died, if only for a moment? How did it feel to look back on that moment in agony?

"It's exhausting."


	41. A Parable

**A PARABLE**

can you be  
something more than black white and gray  
being in monochrome  
who taught you emotions  
_-Monochrome, Ilaria Graziano_

It wasn't the first time Naomi told Ryuk a tale about death.

It was the two of them, alone again in her tent, Light Yagami safely tucked out of sight and the others locked away in their own tents and left to their own devices. When it was just them and the wind, she looked up at him with those silver eyes and he knew she was going to tell him a story.

He still wasn't sure whether she made them up or not, whether they were all merely fantasy or if she had, in some other life, known death face to face as she claimed in her tales. He remembered making up his own. The tales of the madness and glory of a god named Light had been hand-fed to Shinigami fledglings. They had turned out to be real, or at least partly real. He couldn't help but think there was some grain reality to hers as well.

"Once upon a time, in a far off kingdom, people knew that death had a face." She paused, looking away from him. "Not just any face, either—a face that looked human at a first glance. But if you stared too long you noticed that it didn't look quite right. An almost-human face."

Ryuk cackled as he imagined those people not as poor peasants beneath a castle, but as grim-faced soldiers whose starving fingers gripped their guns.

"Sometimes they caught him walking among them—not always in the graveyard, either. In their shops and homes they'd find him. They'd see him sitting by the fireplace, warming his pale, veined hands, and then he'd look at them and they'd die." She paused again, remembering the tale and weaving it into the still air.

"One day, the terrified, starving people decided to kill him. The paradox of this situation escaped them, because they reasoned that if death had a face then he had a body and he had a heart, and if he had a heart then he could die, just like anybody else. They saw no reason why he should live, why he should haunt their houses and their streets. They only knew that he terrified them, and that they would be much happier if he was gone.

"So they made a plan. They got together and whispered their secrets to each other. A single man kept watch for death's bright eyes and sharp ears. They tied their knots and wove their schemes until they had a net that would finally catch the thing that no one had been able to catch before.

"They sent the old woman to confront him, to tempt him with an offer, and they waited in the shadows.

"'Take my life, for I am old and weary of this world,' she said to death's shifting, almost-human face.

"He didn't say anything. He simply stared at her with blinking golden eyes, and they realized, all of them, that he understood them perfectly. You can't fool death, you see, because he sees the ultimate end. You can only out-run him for a little while. Eventually you'll find him waiting for you with a benign smile, holding out his hand.

"He looked at each of them in turn—the old woman, the men, the women, the children—and he sighed as if in exasperation. When he did speak, his words were resigned, without the energy for accusation, 'I suppose you've come to kill me, then.'

"He waited for an answer, but none replied, each backing away from him in fear. They noticed then how thin he looked, how purely inhuman he seemed even with his human form—as if that body only served to emphasize his difference from them.

"'I've been asked this favor before…' He turned from them, walking away from the mob and the kingdom. He paused, looking up at the sky. 'Everything dies. Not just people or animals or plants, but everything dies. The universe itself is dying, though it doesn't know it yet. Everything dies.'

"'We want you to leave this place,' a young man said, holding the net and staring death straight in the eye.

"At first death merely stared. Then his face darkened. 'I could, you know, for a little while, and then come back and see how you are faring. Consider it a gift. You know I don't give them lightly; you've all tried so very hard, and well… at least you were honest.'

"His words and expression didn't match, but the people didn't notice, seeing only that they had won.

"'You'll leave, then?' the children asked, their eyes glowing with hope.

"'Yes.' His voice was filled with a strange weariness, almost sad in its inflection. 'Yes. I'll leave.'

"And he did."

Naomi trailed off, her eyes still turned from Ryuk. She did that, sometimes—trailed off when she began thinking about the world outside of her tale. No doubt she saw those hungry, starving, bitter people and she saw death walking away, his hand still outstretched back to them. She would often remark in a quiet tone during these moments that it was a strange and backwards world they lived in. Usually he agreed with her.

"So they lived forever, and it was wonderful and terrible. They didn't know, when they began, that they needed death. Because even though they couldn't die, they could still feel as if they were dying. They still could age, get sick, be injured—all the things that caused death, but death wasn't there anymore, so they had to suffer as invalids searching for a dream that couldn't be realized. Their children grew old, each injured and mutilated and longing only to die, but death had left just as he said he would.

"They were old and tired and each desperately alone, so they came together once again, all the old men and women, and created a plan to search for death and to bring him back…"

"A mass suicide," Ryuk interrupted with a delighted laugh, wondering how she knew the Shinigami Realm so well.

"Yes, but I doubt they would call it that. To them it was an act of desperation and suffering. They felt they had no other choices left to them. So they sent out their own crippled, diseased, sorrowful children out into the world, each with a picture of death's shifting face. They looked many years, until the soles of their feet had been ground away into dust and their bones had been chipped away by the winds, but eventually they found him.

"Death was sitting at the edge of a pier, his legs dangling above the stormy grey sea that writhed below. His hands were folded in his lap and his eyes gazed out blankly over the horizon. His legs swung back and forth slowly, like the measure of time that seemed so insignificant to the deathless; they beat back and forth back and forth.

"'You're death,' a very old man said to the figure sitting on the edge of the pier.

"Death didn't respond, didn't look back, but simply kept staring out into the distance.

"'We've been looking for you,' the old man explained, motioning to the companions seated behind death. Death turned then, surveying each of them in turn, and he smiled.

"'I've been waiting for you. You took a very long time. Longer than I expected.' He smiled, then, and turned back to the sea.

"'You should come back.'

"'I gave you a gift. I gave you a world without death.'

"'You did not give us world without sickness, or war, or unhappiness.'

"Death shook his head as he stared out at that grey empty horizon, 'No, I'm only death. Those things are yours, not mine.'

"'You should come back,' they repeated, desperation in their voices.

"'Do you understand what I gave you yet?' death asked quietly, his legs kicking back and forth over the waves.

"'You gave us a curse.'

"'I gave you the never-ending story, the story that just goes on and on, repeating itself into infinity, going on so long that you forget that there ever was a beginning. I gave you a glimpse to me. Because, you see, I'm only an idea in the end, nothing more—a tired, lonely idea wearing a human face. That's all I am, and without me you're no better.

"Remember that all things die except those things that don't really exist, including you.'

"Death never turned around because he didn't have to; behind him was only the wind whispering in his ear, the far off kingdom and its citizens only a distant fantasy lost beneath the waves. Death sat alone on the dock facing the grey empty horizon. As the sun began to set he sighed."

* * *

**On the name change: We hated the old title too...**

**Also, I guess we're on TVTropes recs list. Pretty cool. Thanks to anyone who was involved with that, and anyone who's reading because they followed the link from there. AND ALSO THANKS TO OUR NORMAL READERS, TOO. We love you all. :D**


	42. A Minor Bird

**A MINOR BIRD**

she's so cold and human  
it's something humans do  
_-Lithium Flower, Tim Jensen_

The last thing Naomi Misora saw before she died was a clock ticking backwards. She didn't have time to tell if it was real or a hallucination; by the time she had noticed it was already gone. Or rather, she was already gone, her body only a lifeless bleeding puppet with glassy silver eyes. Puppets didn't really care about time, anyway.

Before the watch she remembered thinking—no, knowing—that this was the end and that she was finally dying and that there was nothing she could do to stop it. There was a bullet in her stomach, lodged there from a fanatic's gun and this time there was no one to drag her away. She had no friends left. She was alone.

Before the bullet and the shouting and the screaming and the running and the desperation, she had been in a tent staring out at the stars, wondering what tomorrow might bring, which of her friends—no, not friends, companions—might die next. She hadn't thought that it would be her.

They had been close, closer than they knew. They had tried stealth but it hadn't been enough. They knew there would be trouble and they were prepared, but sometimes even when you've done everything it isn't good enough and you die anyway. That's Kira's War, a war of what you're willing to lose for the sake of a cause—not even the greater good, just a cause.

People thought Kira was an idiot for not simply killing them all and winning, but Naomi saw his losses differently. They were calculated sacrifices. What could Kira afford to lose? How long could he make this last?

But that time was ending. That's why there were moving so quickly, without resources and back up—because the end was near and they were so very very close. Calculated sacrifices. Was she Kira's calculated sacrifice or her own people's? It was hard to tell the difference when you were in the middle of it all. Maybe she was both.

They had been very quiet. The first gunshot had exploded like a falling star, and in that moment Naomi knew that it was the end—the end for someone, at least. They had done this game so many times before, a graze here, a nick there, but now Nathanial was gone and it seemed that their protection had ended. They were mortal once again.

And in the dark beside her, Light Yagami was laughing.

There was a bullet in her stomach, she was tumbling backwards, her mask slipped off, and she saw the clock ticking backwards.

She always knew she was going to die, that one day the Shinigami who laughed behind her would finally grow bored and just finish her. She just didn't think there would be a bullet, too, or that it would be so cold.

It was so cold.

* * *

Matt had really hoped that Light was dead this time, and that Naomi wouldn't drag his ass out of battle. Unfortunately, he was wrong.

"Oh, goddammit!" Matt reached for a cigarette and shook his head as he saw the figure in the distance carrying a wounded soldier on her back. Again.

"You have to admit, she certainly has morals. We would have left him to die. Multiple times," Marcus commented drily as he observed Matt's dismayed expression.

"Morals? That isn't morals. She's just being a bitch to annoy us," Matt said. "Honestly, is this the fifth goddamn time?"

Matt couldn't help but notice that Matsuda and Mogi were staring at him once again. They usually didn't comment when it came to Light or Naomi, preferring to twiddle their thumbs and look so goddamn innocent that Little Bo Peep looked like Hannibal fucking Lector. He didn't care, though, because everyone knew that Light was probably better off rotting in a shallow grave.

Matt watched as Naomi drew closer and prepared himself to ask her what the hell she thought she was doing.

Or at least that's what he planned to do. But then as the figure drew closer, he couldn't help but notice its ragged edges and its naked face, etched with scars. His coat was painted scarlet and on his back was draped a dark haired woman whose face looked like a mask. He thought it was a mask at first, a white funeral mask, but then he realized that it wasn't a mask and that it was really her face.

"Jesus Christ," Marcus whispered as the pair came closer, noticing how the woman wasn't moving, wasn't breathing, her face an unadorned funeral mask.

Matt didn't know what to say because he'd seen people look like that before, but only when he was trying to bury them or was burning them. Suddenly he knew that he'd be the one with the shovel this time, and that the ground would be too hard, and that he'd have to burn her alive.

Light stopped when he reached them, watching them through his amber eyes. Finally, he smiled. "Did you think that I had died?"

It wasn't a question. Matt knew that much. It was a challenge. He knew, he knew that only Naomi would have stayed behind to save his useless ass, and now she was dead. Now she was dead and Light had brought her back to show the fruits of their efforts.

They said nothing. There was nothing to say. They all watched as he set the body on the ground. The blood was streaked down his stained jacket; it seemed more red than gray.

"Of course I understand. After all, it was very noble of you to think to sacrifice me to the gods of war. Perhaps that might have won the war for us: the gods seem to be very hesitant to kill me, so maybe they'd reward you if you did it for them." Light paused, grinning now. He shook his head and began to pick at his blood-soaked gloves.

"Oh well. More's the pity that it didn't work. And it was such a good plan, too; I wish that I had thought of it first. Perhaps next time, you may get a little bit luckier."

Matt swallowed his cigarette, long since extinguished; he didn't reach for another. He didn't move, didn't breathe, because if he breathed then Light would know he was there and he would die. Light would take out his gun and pull the trigger and there would be bullet in Matt's brain, and he would die. He didn't want to die, not here, not now, not when he still had his whole life ahead of him, even if his life was shit. He didn't want to die.

Light was frowning now, a thoughtful expression, the madness far from his eyes as he stared out into the void. He looked old, older than the corpses, older than the wounded and the damned. When he spoke again, his breath was filled with the bitter winter chill. "You're just scum."

It was a statement a fact. His eyes locked on each of them, no longer mad at all, but quite sane. And in their sanity, they judged. Matt felt that gun against his head, felt the trigger as it was pulled, felt the bullet. He heard his body hit the ground with a thud. The sweat was trickling beneath his mask.

"You're just faceless scum," Light repeated, his golden eyes on Matt. "Not even dust, just scum. Not even worth killing, a waste of effort—no, better just to watch as you rot. Better to watch as you disintegrate, as your flesh turns green beneath all your masks, until one day you wake up and you find that you're already dead."

Light smiled, drawing closer to Matt, his red hands reaching out, and his smile stretching the scars across his face. He pulled the boy closer. Matt knew that he was going to die, he was going to die today, and he wouldn't burn Misora because he was going to burn with her. They were all going to be burned alive. Only Light would be left to watch.

"What about the journalist? You need us to find the journalist," Marcus interrupted, his eyes desperate. Light's grip in Matt's collar loosened; he turned to survey Marcus as if dimly pulling him from a dream.

"You've asked me that before," Light said as if repeating a rather boring fact.

"Yes," Marcus replied hesitantly, looking to the others for support.

"Do you think I care about your goddamn journalist?" Light asked with that same bland expression. He sighed once again, as if they were all beginning to annoy him.

Matt felt himself grow pale at those haunting words. Light had changed. He wasn't like them anymore, he was different, he wasn't the same Light he had been—something had changed and now he was capable of anything…

"No, Marcus, I don't give a damn whether Nealan Adessi lives or dies because in the end he's just like you."

Marcus flinched.

Light's attention turned from them and to the corpse who remained slumped against him, as if merely leaning there for support. "You know, I was very close to simply leaving, taking her and leaving you alone. But somehow I think you would have missed the point."

Naomi's still face looked so pale, so terribly, inhumanly pale—no longer a human face but a mask of what humanity used to be. She crouched there like a sleeping child, her face perfectly expressionless, her eyes closed. Matt shuddered and took another step back.

Light clapped his hands together and grinned once again. His voice took on a conversational tone. "But don't worry, my dear Marcus, because I will kill your reporter for you. Isn't that what friends are for?"

* * *

"Do you think there's a reason, why he's kept the body?" Matsuda asked Mogi outside of the tent when they thought he was out of earshot.

Mogi shrugged.

"It could be just to remind us that we could have been her…"

Mogi shrugged again.

"Maybe it was just so that we'd have to live with our own corpses? Or it's a threat. Or maybe it's a literal metaphor, like she's our corpse but she really is our corpse—you know, because Light is… deep? Or maybe Shinigami are watching all of us right now and they've mistaken Light for their own God of Death and by carrying a corpse he is fulfilling some ancient Shinigami prophecy of deathness that he somehow knows about. And the corpse is promising their destruction. Somehow."

Mogi turned towards Matsuda with a raised eyebrow. After ten minutes or so of silence and eyebrow raising, he sighed, finally saying, "Well, I thought he was insane before, when he tried to blow his face off. But I think maybe then he was just on a journey to insanity. Now he's finally reached his destination."

* * *

**A/N: **SO SOME COOL STUFF HAPPENED. 1. We have an average of two reviews per chapter. Woohoooo. 2. Ten chapters to go until the end! WE'RE ALMOST THERE. You ask, "How you could possibly wrap up this confusion in ten chapters when the average chapter long fluff fic takes twenty chapters to conclude?" Well, you'll have to see. Also, we have much less filler. (And we kill things.)

Thanks to all of you guys who've been reading and reviewing to this point. You make use want to Rickroll you endlessly because we LOVE YOU THAT MUCH.


	43. All the Sane Ones are Dead

**A/N: WOOO. We just hit the 100k of posted story/plot-words mark. :D Thanks to everyone who's read this far. This thing is now technically a beast.**

**Review to feed the beast, or it'll try to eat you!**

**(Thanks all who've reviewed, too. YOU LIGHT OUR MARTINIS.)**

* * *

**ALL THE SANE ONES ARE DEAD**

Uh oh, overflow, population, common food, but it'll do.  
Save yourself, serve yourself. World serves its own needs, listen to your heart bleed dummy with the rapture and the revered and the right - right.  
You vitriolic, patriotic, slam, fight, bright light, feeling pretty psyched.

It's the end of the world as we know it.  
_-It's the End of the World as we Know It (And I Feel Fine), R.E.M._

* * *

Marcus's hands shook violently as he remembered the look in Light's golden eyes. He had seen Light in all his madness, with murder burning brightly in his golden eyes; he had seen him covered in blood. This was different. This was worse.

There was no blood on his hands this time, no madness in his eyes, no laughter. There was nothing but a penetrating look that pierced through his soul, a look that placed all the guilt upon his shoulders and his shoulders alone. Light's face had been unsmiling, and in that moment Marcus knew that he was going to die, just like Naomi.

She was still there, still casting a shadow on Light's shoulder—a limp ragdoll with a pale porcelain face. Light's little reminder to the world, his reminder to Marcus, that his end wasn't far off either.

No one had asked why he hadn't burnt the body or buried it; they had each in turn realized that Light held them responsible. Naomi hadn't deserved to die, but they had. Light, in his own way, was promising to make amends. After all, wasn't that what friends were for?

Sometimes Marcus caught her looking at him through those dead-man's eyes. They dissected his soul with eyes an apathetic shade of grey. She lay slumped in a corner, seated next to Light, her head leaning upon his knee and her eyes staring straight through Marcus.

God, he wanted something to drink.

Sometimes he wondered if she was really dead, or if she was still living, still watching through those glazed eyes. It was just the way it looked at him—with that slumped head and that empty, pale expression. Before, he had thought that he knew how terrible death could look.

And Light was watching, no longer apathetic and insane. He was watching all of them through those cool golden eyes and that twisted wolfish smile; he was watching as if he could already see their bodies pressed against a cement wall, their eyes closed tight, and the bullets ripping through the flesh of their backs.

Marcus was certain that they were all going to die, and that each of them would have a gun pressed against the back of their heads, and that the last words they would ever hear would come from Light Yagami's smiling, naked lips.

They were all going to die, and it was their own damn fault.

* * *

The Shinigami was getting bored, but he didn't want to play all his cards. There were others. Maybe not as fun, maybe not quite as doomed, but there were others who were bound to be entertaining. He looked down at the corpse of the woman whose name was no little more than dust. She made a good corpse, he decided.

Her face was a ghost, a mask made of white plaster, her eyes closed and her mouth trapped in a constant (incessant) frown. Almost as if she could still hear him whispering in her ear. Ryuk would miss (maybe) Naomi Misora. It was too bad she had to die.

There were others, though, and he still had pieces of paper worth tearing in half for a bit of fun.

"Catherine." Light looked down on her with calculating eyes that were no longer burning, but cold—colder than she had ever seen them before. She tried to smile, but the terror running through her veins only allowed her to twitch.

Light Yagami had changed; he was different now, he was frightening. Before he had been like a martini, lit on fire for show but blown out just as quickly; now he was like nothing. He was something beyond food and beyond metaphors. His eyes watched her like twin stars waiting for her to burn out. He no longer ranted but spoke softly; he only smiled when asked questions; and he watched.

His eyes were no longer ovens, but something far colder and far more deadly. Something more patient.

"Catherine, I need you to do something for me." He stepped closer to her, ignoring the way she clenched the knife in her hand. He had nothing to fear from her anymore.

He no longer bothered to wear a mask, as if he found the pretense of security ridiculous. Instead he wore his name engraved in a silver dog tag around his neck, displayed for all of the gods of death, in all of their glory, to see. He still wore his blood-stained jacket and his blood-stained gloves; the red streams ran like rivers down from his neck across his arms and down his torso until he was almost redder than he was grey.

Marcus had called him red death. After a poem, he had said, and he said that it meant Light was going to kill them one day, and that their blood will become a river in his jacket just like all those other rivers that ran through those grey threads.

Catherine was scared.

His red gloves held her in place; they chilled her skin where it touched, soaking her to the bone until nothing was left but the spilt blood. He smiled as he spoke. "I need you to deliver a message. Don't say my name because they won't understand the significance. Rather, say it came from the man who doesn't wear a mask."

His voice was so cold, so damn cold, not at all like that passion, or even his grief. No, this voice was calculated; this voice wasn't human. His voice had once been human—she was certain that his voice had once been human. The boy with oven eyes had once had a voice of violence and a voice of laughter. Now he was all blown out.

She nodded quickly; sweat ran beneath her mask and her hand still clenched the knife, waiting for that moment when she'd have to strike so that he didn't kill her first (because she knew he would). Marcus was right, oh God, Marcus was right, Marcus was right…

"I want you to go to our allies, the ones in the other camps. Don't worry, I've plotted out where they are; you won't have to go looking. I want you to go to them and tell them that the man who doesn't wear a mask has sent you and that it is time we do something about that bastard reporter. Tell them not to keep me waiting. I'm not as patient as I used to be."

Light's hand fell on hers; his hand was still and he watched the knife with a curious glint in his eyes. The light reflected from its silver surface. He looked over at her and with a smile began prying the knife from her shaking fingers. She let go and stepped back. He turned it over in his hands as if to look at his own reflection.

The knife fell and Light Yagami walked out of kitchen, leaving Catherine all alone.

* * *

Matsuda and Mogi sat outside the tents, watching as the mob of curious soldiers eyed them with wary respect. Of course, they hadn't really come for them; they had come for the spectacle, for the one-man circus that Yagami Light performed so well.

Matsuda turned his head away as they walked past, not wanting to look at them and see that childish curiosity in their eyes. It wasn't even pity. Matsuda could have at least looked pity in the face.

"Is Catherine back?" Matsuda asked Mogi. The bigger man nodded curtly; Matsuda nodded in return, searching the crowd for her flaming red. She was little more than a child herself, a child who thought that she was different, but only a little girl. She didn't deserve this.

"How is she faring?" Matsuda asked, his voice solemn, his eyes closed now as he envisioned Catherine running out in the dark with little more than a flashlight and a gun, her blue eyes wide in terror as she looked back, and her feet pounding away at the earth as she ran far far away.

Mogi took a while to answer, still watching the crowd head on, meeting their gazes with a stony expression. He saw no reason to hide. It was a little like working for L, he had said: you had to get used to the way people stared at you.

"Well, considering. He frightened her pretty badly. I'm surprised she came back." Mogi adjusted his collar and rubbed his hands together.

"Where else does she have to go?"

They looked at each other and Matsuda was certain that Mogi was asking himself that same question just as Matsuda was, just as they all were—all asking themselves the same question and wondering if it did any damn good.

"Why did he send her? Why not us, or Marcus?" Matsuda's voice broke. The men were staring at him as they shuffled past, watching him and Mogi, watching and not understanding, not really seeing. "God, she's too young, she doesn't understand. Even he must realize that!"

Mogi said nothing because it had all already been said. They all knew.

Naomi was dead, and they were all paying the price because they had left her to die. They had left her and Light to die and that meant that Naomi was more like Light than she was like them—because they had left her with him and she had died because of it. They had left her to die.

There were times when Matsuda had to try very hard not to cry out in despair.

All the while he saw Catherine running alone in the dark, her hair spread like a flame behind her as her flashlight provided her a meager white path to follow; her eyes begged them to help, to understand, and they did nothing. They watched her run, and they did nothing.

"What do you think he's planning?" Matsuda asked Mogi softly, aware of the eyes locked upon him, aware of the ears that were listening but not understanding. Mogi shrugged, but at the look of Matsuda's eyes through his mask, elaborated.

"I think he's going to kill Adessi." Mogi's eyes darkened as he watched the young men walk past; their heads bobbed as they looked for the man without a mask. "And then I think he'll kill us. Maybe not on purpose, maybe not as planned. But however it happens, he is going to watch."


	44. Filibuster

**FILIBUSTER**

So I'll continue to continue to pretend  
My life will never end,  
And flowers never bend  
With the rainfall.

_-Flowers Will Never Bend With the Rainfall, Simon and Garfunkle_

He stood before the mob as a pale ghost dressed in red. A smile danced across his naked, scarred features. He walked smoothly and purposefully; his eyes rested on each individual as he took his stand before them. He held up his hands and the mob was silent; his eyes glowed like stars and his voice echoed throughout the mass.

"My fellow soldiers." He spoke in calm English, ensuring that each and every one of them was listening. His eyes burned holes through the sea of ragged men. "I am glad that you could make your way to my camp today, and I welcome you. I recognize that despite our different languages, our different governments, our different ideals, that you and I share a common goal."

He paused and the mob remained silent, watching him and his still naked features, his real human face. Not cloth or plastic or any other artificial substance, but flesh—pale, torn flesh that stretched and moved as he spoke.

"We are slaves to incompetent and idiotic governments that are convinced they know what it means to have a bullet rip through their backs for the sake of a cause. They do not represent us, they are not us. They are the bureaucrats who sit panicking in their offices as their world falls to ruin."

The men muttered to themselves, their eyes now doubting as they looked at Light, imagining the very real image of their leaders sitting in their offices, fat and sweating as the world collapsed at their feet.

"If our oppressors were to be placed upon a side, then one side would be Adessi, the journalist whom we have all been sent to destroy, and the other would be our own incompetent nationalist rulers.

"We are tired, we are starving, we are freezing, and we are dying. We are dying—from our own bullet wounds, wishing to God that we could simply kill ourselves and save the waiting. They will never understand that. No matter what they language you tell them, no matter what words you use, they will never know what it means to wish to die.

"Our governments do not represent us. They represent ideals that no longer exist in Kira's world—because this is Kira's world and no longer our own. Oh yes, believe me when I say that Kira is with us, and that Kira will survive us. This world belongs to the notebook and the notebook's children. We live in a world where nationalism is merely a word and death is a part of our daily existence; we are the children of the notebook, unconcerned with poverty and power so much as simply staying alive. These petty politicians who send us about their bidding are not us, and though they wear our plastic faces and speak with our oppressed words, they have not seen what we see. They have not seen the maskless bodies of the freshly burnt dead charred before them, they have not seen the fields of blood and bullets, and they have not seen the ravens circling above our heads.

"Why should we work for them when they send us to our deaths the way farmers send their cattle to the slaughter house? They are nothing to us; they are less than gods of death, less than the masks we must wear and the false names we must give ourselves. Why should we submit to the will of beings who are less than death?"

The men looked into his eyesm seeing the twin stars that blazed there, those two golden stars that shot through the minds of each of them and scourged every false illusion they had held. Their fire left only the death, only the dream.

"That said, I do believe that it is time we take care of this journalist of ours. I have grown tired of Adessi. I do not believe he deserves to live in this utopia he's created for himself. It is time we end this war by our own hands and by our own orders. We no longer belong to our governments—our governments have failed us—but rather we belong to ourselves. It is the soldier who will send the bullet through Adessi's head, not the government, and it will be our blood that is spilt, not the government's.

"We alone can end the nightmare. We can end this pointless war at the price of Adessi's blood. I do believe that we have the strength and the will to pay that price. The journalist owes us his head and we will see that he delivers!"

The man stopped talking, raising his bloodstained gloves as if to orchestrate the silence. His smile had returned once again. To the eyes of the soldiers, it looked like the grin of the carrion crow**.**

"When I look down upon you I know that God is watching over us, and that our eyes are watching God. I hope he sees us for what we are and is proud of the world he has created."

He paused and looked up, his eyes burning less brightly as he did so. For a moment, the crowd almost believed that he was a prophet. He looked back down and his voice rang out over the people.

"I will give God a world painted in the blood of the heretic who has defiled His paradise!"


	45. An Honest Man

**AN HONEST MAN**

I am the desert-scape, the sand inside your hourglass  
I am the fear and abuse, the leper children  
Every eye sewn shut  
-_Ghost River, Nightwish_

"And so Red Death held dominion over all…" Marcus trailed off, looking at the others who sat near him, away from the crowd of young men and women, strangers from a strange land who had no true understanding of what they had just witnessed.

They sat together, the band of outcasts—the three men, the boy, and the girl, sitting together and watching Light Yagami smile with solemn eyes and stiff cotton obscuring their faces.

"Don't tell me they believed all that bullshit." Matt spat, reaching for a cigarette with shaking fingers. "It's all bullshit, all of it. He didn't mean a goddamn word he said!" He drew in a deep breath and choked on the charred air.

They watched silently as the crowd applauded; the sea of people loomed before the speaker in awe, a giant wave whose crest was so high that it blocked out the light of the pale sun.

"He's right," Catherine said softly. Her hands were wrapped around her knees and her eyes were locked on Light, watching as he smiled. "He's right about all of it."

She looked younger, her blue eyes a little wider and her hands a little paler beneath her gloves; her hair was barely held from her face and her voice was little more than a shaking whisper of the wind.

"It's all bullshit," she said.

They didn't mention that glimmer of doubt that rested in their own hearts, the doubt that Light was right and that they believed him as well, and that they would follow him into the darkness even though it may very well cost them their lives.

They had each locked the knowledge into a glass jar and had screwed on the lid tight, throwing it into the dark, forgotten parts of their mind and praying all the while that the glass would not shatter, that it wouldn't come back for them, that it wouldn't chew their bones with its ragged teeth.

"He's just full of goddamn bullshit, isn't he?" Matt's voice was gaining confidence. He watched the parade of fools who believed every word without question for the sake of a legend, for the man that had kept his face and who had defied the gods.

(And in the glass of Matt's goggles there were two images reflected, mirror images of each other, a blood-stained god with the gilded eyes of the dragon…)

The men didn't answer and neither did the girl. They had lost all their words and now they could only look at him and look at Light. The glass was broken; the monster was clawing out of its well. All they could do was watch.

* * *

"Nice speech, huh?"

Cathrine turned and realized that she wasn't alone. Of course she was never alone: there were the others, and if they banded together then they wouldn't be alone, they wouldn't be overwhelmed…

It was like looking at an old friend. No, that was wrong—not a friend. A thing that was supposed to be a friend. Like a doll, a doll with a grin plastered on its face like a mask. Unchanging, never-ending, constant. It would watch her and try to convince her that it was her friend because it smiled (because it couldn't stop smiling). Her parents used to give her dolls, sometimes, and she hated them. She hated them because they wouldn't stop smiling and because they weren't real; they were only real in their false intentions, in their dead eyes.

This doll was a strange doll. Its limbs had been pulled and stretched and painted black. Its eyes glittered yellow, like two marbles that she had once lost. It cocked its head like a raven and wore the smile of a jack-o-lantern; it had painted its face white and its lips red until it resembled little more than a player. An actor, perhaps. There were raven feathers behind its back and its boots were black.

"Not really," she answered, looking up at its face (it was very tall). It was still grinning, but now it was laughing, too.

"He's getting better at this people thing, don't you think?" it asked again, like a crow that only knows the words taught to it. Only the questions.

"No, I don't…" Catherine looked around for others, wondering for the first time if the doll was only there for her, if anyone else could see it.

They walked past her, Light's new followers, around her, chatting among themselves. She wondered if she was a god to them too because she once knew him. Knew him before he became a god. They didn't notice if she was or not—she didn't know. She turned back to the yellow-eyed figure with the black boots and the raven's feathers.

"You're a god of death, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

For some reason it seemed as if that conclusion should have been obvious, but it wasn't; somehow, it wasn't, because a part of her—a small part of her—still defied the gods and the demons and the ghosts. There was a child in her soul, a blue-eyed child with curling hair clutching a paper doll to her heart, a child who didn't believe in monsters. There's a difference between knowing and seeing, and now that moment had come and she didn't want to see because she knew what it meant. Catherine with orange hair and blue eyes was afraid, desperately afraid, because gods and monsters were real and she couldn't tell the difference.

"Why are you here?"

It grinned and Catherine felt the wind blow through her soul.

* * *

Nealan was nervous. Something had happened. He could feel it—he could actually feel it this time. He didn't have to be told that something was going terribly wrong.

It was in the air: the scent of doom lingered there. Neal just stared out into empty space wondering what the hell could happen next. How could it possibly get any worse? The Shinigami had often chided him for lack of imagination, but how could it possibly get any fucking worse than this?

He had often thought that the Shinigami, the child god, was the worst thing he could imagine. That nothing could be more horrifying and more terrible than that cruel, ruthless, ineffable god of death who held the world between his thin pale fingers. Those prescient, omniscient blue eyes that mocked his soul and held him in chains—how could he be expected to imagine anything worse?

He was beginning to see it, though; as much as he didn't want to, he was beginning to see the monster at the bottom of the well, climbing slowly up. The names, the money, the eyes—everything was coming together, beginning to make some sort of horrifying sense. The Shinigami had a purpose, some dreadful ends in sight. And something was in the way.

The Shinigami looked pensive—not terrified, simply pensive. He stopped talking and stared out the window, his eyes looking far beyond the glass. He was watching something, preoccupied, and that terrified Neal. If there was something that claimed the Shinigami's attention—not just the sliver that Neal often faced, but the entirety of that omniscient presence…

Neal didn't want to think about that.

He suddenly felt as if he had been abandoned, left to his own devices in the world that he had accidentally created—left to die. Like he was a fourteen-year-old who had been given the wheel to a car, and at first he was excited… but then he realized that he was alone in the car on the rushing freeway, and that he didn't know how to drive.

He had never liked the Shinigami; he hated the child god, always had, but that didn't mean that he didn't recognize the face of the crutches he leaned on. He needed the Shinigami more than he needed anyone or anything—without the Shinigami anything could happen, and he couldn't stop it.

Neal realized in terror that he didn't want to be alone.

There the Shinigami stood now, by the window, not looking at Neal, not even acknowledging his presence; his eyes narrowed as he looked out on something else something far beyond his walls. Something was coming, something bad, something very bad. Neal knew it and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

It was like that moment when he had picked up the notebook, when he had snuck under the crime scene tape after the cops and had brushed the dirt off of that black notebook, reading the words on the cover. There had been a lot of words on the cover—it was filled with them, disconnected, incoherent words that ran together in a blur. He couldn't remember actually reading a single one, only looking at them; the words were lost in the jumble of excitement.

(He remembered the blue eyes of the boy with wings on their first encounter; the Shinigami stared down at him as he worked on the beginnings of the documentary, fiddled with the materials he wished to include. More than the eyes, he remembered the question the demon child had asked—even though at that time he had not been a demon child to Neal, not yet.

"Did you even bother to read it?")

He had been excited. That excitement rose over him like a wave towering above him and rushing all else aside for the thoughts of what could be. Only that wasn't all—in the back of his mind there had been a sense of unease, a glimmering of horror as his subconscious realized what must follow. He hadn't known then, even when confronted by the child-god who had stood so casually before him with that disdain in his eyes.

He often asked himself how could he have known, how could anyone have known. Many people held him responsible, but Neal was not one of them. Sometimes he saw, though, in the depths of his mind when the horrors overtook him—sometimes he saw that small sense of doubt. He had known. Even when he lied to himself, he had known.

There was something about owning a notebook that killed, a tool whose entire purpose was to destroy. Even though Neal hadn't used it, he knew that just touching the thing boded ill. It had breathed death; the dust and dirt falling from it silently as Neal shook it apart in delight, not knowing, not listening to the screams of terror in the back of his mind.

He wondered if that was how Kira had felt, that original, dead Kira whom he had almost forgotten. He found that most people had forgotten that original Kira, the one who had tried to do good with a tool of destruction. Neal had to admit that he deserved some praise for trying, even if he had a hand in this nightmare reality.

Kira was a ghost, a thing from before—before the world had changed and become a thing of masks and death. Kira belonged to that former world that could dream of a utopia without murder or fire. These new people, the new masked people, could no longer conceive such a place. They still said the word Kira but they had forgotten why; it now applied only to the Shinigami. Even the worshippers no longer understood. Kira was dead, changed, metamorphosed into that grinning child god.

They could only see the road to Hell, not the good intentions that paved it.

Maybe it was better that way, that he was the only one who remembered that there may have been a point to all of this. Maybe it was better that he was the only one who remembered.

Because when the thing came, whatever it was, and it killed him, he'd be dead and it would be forgotten again. And he couldn't help but thinking, as he looked at the Shinigami, that it would be kind of nice.

* * *

**What happens when your authors try to create continuity and structure:**

**Neal: So this is the universe, this is us, and this is lolcats  
****Achos: Everything is lolcats  
****Neal: Everything makes so much sense now**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing, folks. :D**


	46. On the Theme of Immanent Death

**ON THE THEME OF IMMANENT DEATH**

the man with spider eyebrows  
is standing on a corner  
"who wants to see a show?"

-_Where Does This Ocean Go?, Yoko Kanno_

Mello wasn't sure what to think of this. The first thought that had come to him when he heard was, 'It's about goddamn time, those lazy bastards.' Then he had paused and he reconsidered; slowly but surely, his mind began to change directions.

Near was worried. Mello knew that, could see it even though the little bastard pretended to be cool as a cucumber. Near was sweating bullets and Mello knew it—they both knew it. Mello didn't call him out on it because he could feel it too, and he was starting to worry.

The question that kept coming back in his mind was, how in hell were you supposed to view your goddamn messiah when he came to your door?

(Because even Mello knew, right when he had first heard, that Light Yagami was some kind of prophet, some kind of a messiah. Even non-religious, cynical Mello didn't have the balls to dispute that.)

At first it had been a few rumors: a man with a face, a man who defied Kira and the Shinigami, a man who wasn't a man (because if he was a man then he would have been stone cold dead from a heart attack right about now)—he was a phantom.

Near said he was a dragon.

(He hadn't explained his words but he hadn't been kidding either. Mello had laughed at the time because it seemed so goddamn funny that a giant flying lizard would be heading right towards them, but Near hadn't laughed. Near's eyes were dead as doornails and that had stopped Mello from laughing.)

It had been mild curiosity then, because Mello didn't believe a fucking word of it. Not a single word. The walls whispered—speeches, deaths, real bullets pounded into far-off soldiers. Then things changed. He was coming towards them—no, not coming, rocketing towards them with an entire army behind him. Suddenly he wasn't a rumor; he was real and he kept coming closer and closer.

(And Near said while looking at Mello with something akin to pity, "He's a dragon.")

Mello was surprised to find himself jealous, as if it was Wammy's all over again and Near just kept on beating him no matter how hard he tried. Near always always came in first. Except this time, this time it wasn't Near—it was someone else.

Near and Mello had been trying for years. They blew up Kira's goddamn office and they still weren't sure if he was dead or alive. Hell, Mello was starting to believe someone had made the damn guy up and that they just kept on seeing some shmo who said he was Nealan Adessi. Maybe Neal was already dead—did it even really matter? Here came this Light Yagami, though, out of the blue and suddenly everyone was panicking. Just because one guy gave an inspiring speech the world went nucking futs.

(Near had said nothing at first to this complaint, and had merely looked at Mello. In his eyes Mello could see that pity, that disdain that had always been there in the old days—back when Near was first and Mello was second. Then Near opened his mouth. "You can't be stupid enough to believe it's that simple." And that was all he said.)

He still wasn't sure quite what to think about it—he kept changing his mind, not sure if he believed it or not. However, he had come to believe one thing, and one thing above all other things: something was changing. It didn't feel good.

* * *

They marched. Light's army followed him as if he were a god—from a proper distance, none of them close enough to touch, to feel, the sense of malice that emanated from him. He saw them and yet he did not particularly care for their fate or their hidden features; to him they were simply cogs in the great clock, a necessary thing so that the machinery might tick and time move forward. He needed them and they needed him, for the clock needed them all, but he did not particularly care for them or for their purpose.

With the corpse of Naomi strapped to his back, he thought back on his options. He could have stopped that clock—he knew that now. He could have stepped out of the pattern and watched as it fell apart without him, without that single gear. It might have even been enjoyable, or amusing, at the very least. He could see himself standing alone on a hill stained in red, just watching as they all crumbled to dust.

He was surprised at the depth of his dislike for his soldiers. Not hatred—hatred was too passionate a thing for them. No, it was more his disdain. For the new ones, especially, because he knew very well that if they were given the choice they would not have come back for him and pulled him from the mound of corpses. They would not have stayed behind, these false worshippers—not even for their god.

(In his mind's eye he saw them, painted white, shedding crows' feathers and tearing their masks from their faces. Sayu's face was among them.)

They were drawing ever closer to the place where their journeys would end. He felt a grim satisfaction at the cleanliness of it. Yes, that was the right word—it was clean. In its own bloody, grim way it was clean, cleaner than anything else had ever been in his life.

The others would have gawked at this, but they didn't understand. They were too caught up in the moving picture, the blood that sprayed in their faces and the seeming chaos of it all. He had never thought of them as bright. It was clean for only one reason and one reason alone: it was out of his hands.

Whatever God ruled this universe and Kira along with it may or may not deign to grant Yagami Light's wishes; he may or may not even acknowledge Yagami Light's existence. And that was fine. Light found that he didn't particularly care anymore—it seemed a moot and irrefutable point, and he no longer had the energy or the patience to squabble over.

Light did, however, have the patience to see what happened next. He could have shot them all, one at a time, poisoned them maybe, but he didn't want to. He had told them to their faces that they weren't worth the effort. No, he wanted to do something else, something he found he was quite good at. He was going to wait and he was going to watch.

He had tried screaming at God, denying God, ignoring God—now he decided the best thing to do was to watch God as God may or may not have watched him. He found that the silence that greeted his own silence was not entirely empty, and he began to grow hopeful.

The world was no longer in his control. That was fine.

* * *

"Is this it?" Catherine asked her companions, looking towards the very small building in the distance.

"No fucking way. That can't be it. I thought it was fucking huge. I mean, didn't the satellite images have like fucking twenty-five walls or some bullshit like that? That thing does not have twenty-five fucking walls. There are maybe like, two, or three, maybe even four…" Matt reached for a cigarette and shook his head in dismay.

Captain Light Yagami's A-team was beginning to realize that Kira not only had the power to convince a good portion of the population that he was God—but that he also had the power to fuck with satellite images.

"…This might be it," Matsuda said, squinting at the building that really looked more like a cardboard box held together with a smidgeon of scotch tape than a fortress. He cocked his head to get a better view, expecting more walls to magically appear.

"Hot damn," Marcus commented bluntly, wishing that they had convinced Light's fanatic legion to give them more vodka. "Why the hell didn't we storm it earlier? We could have gotten away with that with five people, let alone this bunch." He motioned to the army around them who all stared at Light Yagami with adoring eyes.

"This doesn't mean that the whole other side of the war is made up. I mean, we haven't been fighting puppets…" Matsuda trailed off, wondering at the possibility that Kira was a fantastic engineer who had created an army of cyborgs to do his bidding. He shook his head, not willing to comment on that thought, and said, "They bleed, at least. That's human enough for me."

"This is such bullshit!" Matt dropped the cigarette and ground it beneath his foot.

The rest of the group agreed but weren't willing to say it quite so loud. They just looked at Matt with dull, accepting eyes—as if to say _we already know—_and moved on. There were quite a few things that they already knew, and it was only getting worse.

Light had stopped talking to them; they were now a part of the mob, except that they weren't. The others knew the difference. The legion of worshippers saw them and understood that they had been marked for death. They were outcasts.

Matsuda remembered seeing Light alone on a hill looking at a silver watch; the sunlight glinted off of the glass and onto his bare skin. Matsuda remembered swallowing drily, feeling the terror begin to sink in his stomach and the monster climb out of the well.

Yes, it was bullshit, wasn't it? That didn't stop the feeling of terror, though, as they approached the fortress that did not have twenty-five walls.

* * *

And the masses had yet to realize that they had travelled beyond their own chessboard. The pieces were set and the checkered field lay before them, but it was not their own. They marched forward under the orders of the man they came to view as something of a god, not realizing that it's always the pawns that die first, and that their two-faced idol was not the King.


	47. Tallyho!

**TALLYHO (MARIONETTES)**

Restless souls will put on their dancing shoes  
Mindless ghouls with lot of limbs to lose  
Illusionists, contortionist,  
Tightrope-walkers tightening the noose  
-_Scaretale, Nightwish_

Mello didn't realize it was happening until they started hearing the explosions. He looked over at Near, who always happened to be nearby nowadays (unintentional puns aside). He knew the words were written all over his face, but said it anyway. "Fuck!"

The others around him, the ones who actually did believe in Kira and his cause, were clearly just as frantic, grabbing at guns and racing to the explosion shouting at the other and looking back to Mello. Mello just continued to stand there, thinking _fuck, fuck, fuck… _

Of course, they were thinking that because some sort of a grenade had just blown through their wall, and that meant that their days of worshipping serial murdering journalist bastards was at an end. Then they'd have to go back and live a life like normal masked post-apocalypse people—if they survived, that was. Survival was looking increasingly unlikely as the explosions continued and shouting could be heard throughout the first wall.

Mello was thinking the f-bomb not because of Adessi—hell, he'd tried to blow up Adessi via desk bomb. Whether it worked or not wasn't the point; it was the thought that counted. Adessi could go screw himself if he wanted some goddamn sympathy. No, what he was thinking now was that he and Near, the good guys in disguise, hadn't contacted the messiah Yagami yet. That meant that they were going to be blown to itty bitty pieces when he came storming through.

Mello pulled his gun out of the holster on his waist, not particularly caring who he had to kill—just as long as he didn't get himself killed in the process. He could think about which side he was on after her saved his blonde ass. So much for God and country and revenge.

The smoke alarm went off; Mello couldn't help but repeat his previous statement. "Oh, fuck!"

Near simply looked at him with a solemn expression, that ghost expression from the old days. He wasn't that much older now, but god, he looked so young, so damn young. He smiled sadly. In that smile Mello saw that Near thought they were going to die. There was no arrogance this time—as if the years had taken that small bit of emotion from him and had left him only with the blank puzzle.

"Oh no you don't, you little bastard!" Mello screamed at him, then grabbed his hand. His mind whirred, thinking of where to go, where they wouldn't be killed, because it was too late now to talk to Light Yagami, the naked-faced wonder.

Near didn't say anything; he only stood. His arm hung limply in Mello's grip as Mello turned right and left, trying to think, trying to come up with a plan a plan that would save their lives and get them the fuck out of this rat hole before it was blown to pieces.

Another explosion and the sprinklers were off. Mello could hear the screaming of Yagami Light's fanatic horde. They were coming.

He started to run down the corridor, dragging Near behind him. Dear God, he was thinking, he didn't even know Near's real name; now he never would. They were just numbers and letters to each other, and that didn't even really matter anymore because neither of them were going to be the next L.

He wasn't really running anywhere in particular, just away from the noise, away from the mob of desperate men who would no doubt blow them to pieces given half a chance. Out, out and out—that's where Mello was headed with Near behind him.

Yes, he hated Near, sometimes, loathed him, but at the same time they were Thing One and Thing Two, and if they didn't stick together, then by God, who would? Near was Mello's twin from all those years ago; they had stuck together so far and Mello wouldn't let him die like this, even if he wanted to. Not like this. Not blown to pieces by angry men.

They're going to kill everyone, he thought. Goddammit, they're going to kill everyone…

Wait. Not the prisoners—they wouldn't kill the prisoners.

And with that Mello veered left towards the staircase and down into the dark, dragging Near behind him. In his mind, the key to the cages danced before him and the cell door was wide open.

* * *

The only thing he could think of at the time was thank God: thank God it's all over. It was painful, yes, but it was abrupt—it wasn't expected. This was not the way Marcus had expected to die. Somewhere above his head the lights rippled and the walls began to give way; he was falling slowly, and he was laughing because there was blood all over his hands again.

It was like the day he'd tried to doctor Light—only this time it wasn't Light's blood, it was his. He laughed harder.

Men were running around him like rats. He was a rat once; he remembered being a rat, being vermin. That's all journalists were nowadays, just rats—the only problem was that not everyone had rat poison. Sometimes you just had to deal with all the fucking rats. He hadn't been bleeding then, but they had wanted him to bleed, like he was bleeding now—only they weren't there to see it.

He could see his daughter, then, lying in the hospital bed, her final words long since said. He couldn't remember them now—only that small, painful smile before her eyes drifted shut and her face turned away. He remembered holding her hand and thinking how cold it was, how lifeless and cold it was in his.

He clutched his bleeding stomach and looked up to see someone looking down at him and passing by. The gunshots were deafening. He would not cry for help. He only looked—and pleaded—but he was a rat and they were men driven by a mad god.

* * *

Matsuda wasn't sure where he was; only that he was surrounded by a mob. No, not a mob—he was surrounded by masks, hundreds of masks that screamed and bled. Mobs had faces, mobs had a single voice that urged them to kill. These were only masks, screaming in discord.

Dimly, he realized that he too was a mask and not a face. Only Light had a face, and Light had slipped off somewhere with a smile and a gun. It was turning to his left and seeing Light there, walking away slowly, that Matsuda knew he was left to fend for himself.

And he was alone. They were all alone.

* * *

Catherine wasn't quite sure where she was, only that it was dark and cold. She had travelled down when everyone else had travelled up because that had made the most sense. They were the mob and she was not; they couldn't tell her from the walls, and sometimes the mob would shoot the walls just for the hell of it. Because that's what mobs do. So they went up and around, and she went down into the dark.

She walked in the dark and the quiet and she thought it wasn't that bad: at least in the dark there wasn't anything but herself. No mob, no noise, no blood. Just Catherine, her knives, and the dark.

It wasn't so bad being left alone in the dark.

The stone floor met her feet at an even rhythm. She began to look around, at first seeing only her friend, the dark, but then seeing crusted bars to her left and to her right. Then she realized that the dark had lied to her, because the mob was here too, underground with her, and she had only thought that she had run down and they had run up. She could hear them upstairs, their pounding feet and their pounding guns—they screaming up there, but they were down here too, watching her with apathetic eyes.

The mob went up and the mob went down, the mob went into the light and it went into the dark, she was the mob and the mob was her.

In the dark they looked smaller, weaker—not like the mob upstairs. They wore sacks on their heads and chains on their hands, and in the dark their eyes gazed up like the eyes of fish on the ice.

And above her head the angels held their rifles and bang bang went the bullets into the screaming walls.

She walked down the tunnel, knowing that the light was up above with the angels (the mob) and not at the end like they had told her back before the faces had been lost. She figured that they just put them aside one day, in little jars, so that one day they could find them again. Only they didn't. They all lost their jars and the faces inside them. Now there was only the dark tunnel that had no light at the end of it.

Her feet carried her past the bars with the sack-faced men inside. Each of them turned to watch with those empty, dead, burnt-out eyes.

They weren't pleasant. She didn't like looking at their sack-heads and their mangled, jangled hands. Their chains rattled and cackled and the darkness only seemed to get darker. She didn't like it, but there wasn't light at the end of the tunnel, and she had to keep going because the guns were screaming in the hands of the angels.

If she closed her eyes she would see that light she had left behind; she would see the blood and the noise and the guns, all those crying guns. She would see the mob and they could see her too, because she was the mob—she would see their empty plastic faces and knew that their jars had been broken too. They had forgotten what they lost.

She wouldn't close her eyes.

If she closed her eyes she would see Light with his oven eyes looking down at her, his smile and his red hands. Light standing above her, his message stained on his uncovered lips. Light's hands stained her, bled on her. Red was everywhere and it wouldn't come out it wouldn't come out it wouldn't come out…

She wouldn't close her eyes.

She wouldn't close her eyes.

She wouldn't close her eyes.

She wouldn't…

"Catherine!" a sack-man called out to her, shuffling his way over to the silver bars. His sack face moved and bulged, but his eyes were not fish eyes—a spark had lit inside them and they were no longer on the ice.

She stopped. Her feet wanted to move but they stopped, and she couldn't move even if she tried. She could hear the mob above her and around her and inside of her; she could hear their stomping and their dying and she wished it would stop. It wouldn't.

"Catherine, it's Nathanial…" The sack-man looked at her desperately through the holes where his eyes should be.

He was looking at her and she had the feeling she should say something, but all she could think of was pounding of the mob.

"Catherine, it's Nathanial, from the army. Did you come here with the others? Is Light here?"

She crashed away from him, into the other cage, away from that name, that word. That word meant something other than light, something darker and worse than light. There was so much red, so much noisy, clamoring red…

The sack man reached for her through the cage. "Catherine, you have to let me out, you have to get me out of here. This place isn't… safe…"

She thought his hands were caged, but the silver wasn't there and she was terrified because she thought there was silver and there wasn't, there was only red, only red.

"Catherine!" the sack-face screamed at her, just like the mob, just like the guns that went bang bang and the bullets that had such pretty blood.

She ran.

* * *

Matt was really sick of this shit.

Matt was really goddamn tired of being afraid of Light and listening to Light and following Light's fucking orders. He decided, staring at the raging mob and the carnage, that he really needed a cigarette break. Screw war.

So there he was, cigarette in his mouth, scratching at the side of his mask, just looking for a room that wasn't covered in blood and filled with soldiers. He was having a reasonably difficult time.

He thought that they'd all just follow Light wherever he went, and that there'd be at least one empty room, but they were everywhere. Jesus Christ, he'd never have a smoke break. It was really starting to piss him off. Everywhere he went he heard about how wonderful Light was, how much like a god Light was, blah blah blah.

Someone besides him had to notice that it was all complete bullshit.

The rest of the team did, but the rest of the team sucked ass. Marcus had been an asshole, Nat was dead or missing or some shit, and Catherine was even more of a crazy bitch than usual. That just left the senior citizens, and he didn't care what they thought.

Someone normal and sane besides him had to notice that it was all complete bullshit.

God, he needed a drink. And a smoke break.

He looked into many rooms, watching the screaming, bleeding men and stepping carefully over the corpses, filching free smokes from dead pockets. Hey, waste not want not—that was Matt's policy. Even if the blood of the corpses always stained his hands.

Eventually he found the staircase. He looked at it thoughtfully behind tinted green goggles and a burning cigarette; he smiled slightly and began to descend into the quiet darkness.

* * *

"Well, it's all coming together now, isn't it?"

Light smiled and the walls shuddered.

* * *

They were all in the basement, one way or another; even those who had died were in the basement. Where they expected nothingness, they found instead the basement and resigned themselves to a less appealing fate.

A young man stood in the basement, lighting his cigarette. His red hair glowed briefly in the small dying sun; the smoke trickled through his mask and stained his eyes. He hardly noticed, but then, he never noticed much, did he? He was the youngest, the sanest, and for that reason he was the one who could not see the way the floor met his boots and the walls loomed above him. He wasn't looking for the walls or the floor or even other people—he was looking for a way out. He just didn't realize it at the time.

He looked idly down the corridor, listening to the distant footsteps that resounded, wondering where the guards had gone off to and why it seemed so quiet. But he didn't really care about any of that. It wasn't his purpose to care or to think.

A girl ran in circles because she knew that she wanted out—she had just forgotten that stairs are harder to climb up than down. Gradually losing her way, she stumbled about like a chicken whose head lay bleeding on the feed. She heard the desperate echo of her own footsteps and was reminded vaguely of death, although she had never truly thought of him before. She hadn't really thought much of anything until now; all she could think of now was how lost and terribly afraid she was.

They don't really think much at all, but you can hardly blame them. They're only a child'spuppets, after 're only doing what they're told, following what they need to, not sparing a thought to who or what might be pulling their strings. All in the basement wondering just how on earth they got there. But have they ever left?

* * *

**A/N: EVERYTHING GETS EVEN MORE INSANE AND NONSENSICAL. Thanks for the reviews and readers. You guys are the best. :D**


	48. You Don't Know His Name?

**Hi again, all. Last stretch! Thanks for reading; you guys are so cool you make ice look like a poser. Reviews would be awesome. Especially 'cause A SURPRISE MAY OR MAY NOT BE IN THIS CHAPTER. **

* * *

**YOU DON'T KNOW HIS NAME?**

Be afraid of the lame  
They'll inherit your legs  
Be afraid of the old  
They'll inherit your souls  
Be afraid of the cold  
They'll inherit your blood  
Apres moi, le deluge  
After me comes the flood  
_-Après Moi, Regina Spektor_

"What the fuck?" Matt said as the girl ran past him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust—then he realized that he knew her, had known her for some time. He said her name. "Catherine?"

She stopped, shuddering slightly, and she turned to look at him with blank eyes.

She looked different, haunted, but then maybe she had looked like that for a while and he'd never looked before, never had to look. She looked like she was dying, like Light had before he became whatever the fuck he was now.

"I couldn't stand the screaming," she said quietly, as if somewhere in her mind she knew that there should be an excuse and that she needed to say something. Her hands were shaking. She looked back and repeated her statement. "I couldn't stand the screaming."

He wanted to say something, something pointless, something funny, because then it wouldn't matter and he wouldn't have to look at her. He wouldn't have to stare anymore at this fucking corpse; he could pretend that it didn't matter and that she didn't really exist.

He took a drag from his cigarette and closed his eyes, trying to think of that perfect phrase. He used to have so many. He realized he was tired. Like the others, he'd gotten older somehow; he'd aged to the point of uselessness. He had become no better than the rest, no brighter. He was even duller, maybe.

Neither of them were moving. Perhaps they recognized that they had nowhere else to go. Upstairs there was only blood and bullets; down here there was only a silent sort of death that ate at flesh and bone.

It didn't matter anyway: the man they despised most came to them first.

"Hello there, Matt, Catherine. Have I missed anything important?"

Looking at him, it was difficult to decipher what made him look so inhuman, so like a doll that had been torn and ripped until it resembled that which a child would have thrown away for fear of nightmares. It wasn't the scars. Those were too jagged, too real, too substantial to be anything but human. It wasn't his casual posture, either, the way he leaned against the prison bars as if he belonged there. It wasn't his hands, his arms, his legs, his hair, or his eyes. Light Yagami, however, positively reeked of inhumanity.

They took a step back from him, perhaps repulsed by his very presence—or perhaps he merely took a step back from them.

He smiled thinly from behind his maskless face. "Did you miss me already? My, my, I've hardly been gone that long. Did you think I was gone for good? Such a disappointment, but then, here I am and here I remain." He spread his hands side to side and drew himself up to his full height, motioning towards his audience of sack faces and empty masks.

"What do you want?" Matt asked.

The man paused, then, still watching the empty brown faces, his arms raised. In that moment Matt saw what Naomi Misora had seen before she died—a fallen, laughing god of death stood before him.

"You're rather slow on the uptake, Matt. Should I explain to you again, exactly what I want? I don't think I will. Repeating myself is boring, and God knows I wouldn't want to be boring." He surveyed the two masked humans with an amused sparkle in his eye, like a crow that had spotted a silver spoon amid the weeds.

Matt fingered the trigger of his gun, remembering the need for bullets. Light grinned.

"Why the fuck are you here?" Matt asked. Catherine edged away from Light with that same wild look in her eye, that dehumanized look, that insane look—like there was nothing even there.

"I'm looking for L, of course. That was, after all, the entire point of this venture—before things got out of hand." Light turned his attention back to the faceless prisoners sitting inside their cages like animals in a zoo. They just stared—like Catherine.

Matt didn't know what to say to that; in a way, it was true. That had been the point, hadn't it? Before Nat had died, before Naomi had died, before the others had gotten lost, before Light had gotten worse. That had been the point. He thought it was.

Light drew his fingers across the bars, rattling a mad cacophony in the silence. Matt winced at the clang of each finger against the iron. Light began to whistle some forgotten happy tune from a long time ago—one that Matt had heard before but no longer remembered. He strolled without purpose, without direction through the hallway; he looked at each prisoner in his turn, regarding them with a critical eye and moving to the next.

"Why don't you just pick one, then, since it doesn't make a difference anyone. No one will give a damn if it's really L or not." Matt dropped his cigarette and ground it on the floor under his toe, looking at Light all the while—looking at that scarred face that seemed pale beyond measure, like a ghost's.

"Oh, I know, but you see, Matt, that's no fun."

The blood-soaked man stopped then, before one cage, his eyes glittering like the crow's and his grin like the wolf's. "There. Here's our L."

Matt walked up then behind Light Yagami to see whoever this man might be and what he might look like. What made him so damn special? At first Matt didn't see it—he glanced over it because it seemed an absurd detail, so absurd it didn't even register. But then he saw. It was a man—a hunched, shivering man who appeared very close to death, a man with bones for fingers and black pits for eyes. The man had carved a gothic L onto his naked chest; the dried blood had dripped and now angry red gashes remained, healing, but not yet scars. It was rough about the edges, carved in haste with broken fingernails. Although it was the L he so remembered, he knew that it meant nothing. He knew in his bones that this man could not be L.

"Why would he do that?" Matt asked.

But Matt knew the answer. He knew the fear of forgetting, of the infinite unknown. He knew that in the darkest moments there was nothing left, not even a name—and anything that he could salvage, any point of light… He, too, would have dug into his own flesh. With burns from a cigarette, he would have spelled out his true name, whatever that might have been, and born it on his naked chest for all the world to see.

"Ah, and it seems Nathanial's here as well," Light mused, looking at a cage opposite from his L. His head cocked to the side as if deciding whether he truly wanted to let the man out.

"Light?"

"Hello, Nathanial. You look well."

"I look dead."

"I know."

Why did Light's grin resemble nothing human, nothing gentle—why was it so terribly vicious?

It was almost humorous, Light's bare face and Nathanial's face hidden so delicately behind that mask. Their words were meaningless gibberish, and yet they spoke all the same, saying nothing they wanted to say—only the formalities.

Light turned then from Nathanial, the man in the cage, a man who could have been his friend, and regarded the shivering form that he had called L. Matt was still watching the other man, though, the one they had left behind; he knew they both realized that Light wasn't going to turn around again.

Matt didn't know where Light found the key, but he imagined there was a dead body or two to be accounted for. Light stood whistling, his foot tapping, and his hand on the key in the lock. Matt knew then that Light would not let out the others, none of the others—only this man who had happened to carve an L on his chest.

Not even Nathanial, whom he had recognized and called out to, because in the end he didn't matter, and he would have left Light to die as well. Only the man with the L on his chest—because that was all he had time for, all any of them had time for. And even then, he barely mattered and no one truly cared.

The door opened with a metal clang and a squeal. Light entered and drew out the dying pile of bones smiling while he did so, as if it was little more than a chore to be done. One more thing to get out of the way before he could finally move on. Matt found himself wishing, wishing more than he ever had in his life, that Light Yagami would find a hole crawl into it and simply die.

Outside of the cage the man with the L on his chest looked around, as if bewildered to find himself outside of his iron walls, and Matt had to wonder just how long he had been rotting there.

Light grabbed the false L by the wrist and made his way toward the staircase, yanking the man forward. The man stumbled on weak knees, fell again and again—and still Light walked on, whistling that jaunty tune, not bothering to look back or respond to Nathanial's pleas, all the while carrying the silver key in his pocket as if it were the lightest thing in the world.

Matt said nothing. He only listened to the footsteps of a god of death and his next victim, his newest slab of fresh meat, and he felt that in the past he would have said something. There would have been words, useless, stupid words that he would never say now. Things had changed and words weren't enough anymore.

Matt only wished that Light would hurry up and die.

"I almost forgot."

The words resounded breaking his thoughts, the air stilled, and Matt felt a seed of horror grow inside his chest; the vines and purple flowers ate at his heart. There, at the end of the hallway, stood death (no, Light, his name was Light…) smiling, the whistling gone, with one hand on a gun and the other holding onto the prisoner's wrist.

The blood-stained jacket approached at a casual pace. Matt didn't move, had nowhere else to run, but he knew. Somehow he knew before it happened, though it made no difference in the end. He felt Light's hand on his shoulder before it was there, the gun against his temple, the breath against his ear. The push, the fall, the clang, the cell.

Then Light, Yagami Light, smiled down at him and walked away. Whistling, whistling, whistling all the while.

* * *

There was a gun against Neal's head. It hadn't been there for a long time, but long enough for it to be almost important. He almost pulled the trigger, you see. His finger almost twitched and his brains almost slid down the wallpaper like splattered paint. Sweat dripped down his temple beneath the mask. The gun was almost unnecessary—it was more the idea of the gun, anyway. Suicide wasn't nearly as fun when it was just a matter of tearing cloth. In the end it was all about the bang.

He sat at his desk, his finger resting ever so lightly against the trigger, twitching, sweating. The wallpaper was shaking—or perhaps he was shaking. The gun was moving too, but not enough to change the outcome of the finger pulling the trigger.

It almost made a difference. The Shinigami almost found a corpse instead of a pale, sweating facsimile of a man. Not that the Shinigami would have given a damn; to the Shinigami, the corpse was almost more useful than the man.

Almost, but not quite.

* * *

"I think everyone is gone," Mello said slowly, unlocking the cell he and Near had taken refuge in. He had heard footsteps earlier, shouting, gunshots, but now it seemed perfectly silent. Dead.

"You don't know that."

Mello didn't respond because it was true—but that wasn't the point. The point was staying alive. Staying alive and getting out before they died for something that shouldn't have mattered. Mello didn't care what the fuck happened to Adessi, or if Adessi was even real. All he cared about was getting out.

"Let's go." He pulled on Near's hand, pulling him down the hallway, toward the stairwell, toward whatever awaited them upstairs. In the sunlight, in the freedom, in the exit and the threshold. Mello needed to get out.

They walked in silence looking side to side, ahead, down the hallway filled with prison cells, passing each broken face without pause. The prisoners looked as if they had died—no movement, no sound, only sack-faced men.

"They've gone insane," Near whispered as he looked at each of them in turn. "They're all mad."

Mello didn't say anything to that, either, because it wasn't made of sunlight.

In retrospect, if there was a retrospect, they almost made it. If they had kept walking, if Mello had kept dragging and Near had kept stumbling, they almost made it out. Perhaps they would have found a window of opportunity, perhaps they would have scraped their hands on the broken glass, perhaps they could have climbed out onto the plain, perhaps they could have found freedom, somewhere. If they had ignored it, ignored him, they might have made it—but Mello stopped walking and Near stopped stumbling.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mello turned to the voice, the voice in the cell, and he saw the familiar shock of red hair and the green goggles. His feet stopped, and that was the beginning of the end for him.

"Matt?"

The figure sitting in the cell regarded him from behind a plain black mask molded haphazardly to his face, almost unrecognizable—but the voice wasn't. The voice was the same, though it had been years since Wammy's had fallen.

"Mello, Near, nice to see you two bastards. Never thought I'd run into you again. Ever. What the fuck are you two doing in a place like this?" Matt lit a cigarette with gloved hands, his fingers still. A cool bravado took place before Mello's eyes—as if it didn't even bother Matt that he was locked in a cage and that he would most likely die there.

Mello didn't answer the question but instead asked another: "Where did they find you?"

Matt shrugged and laughed. "Not they, not they. Him."

Mello couldn't place his finger but something had changed; Matt was different. Hell, they were all different, but Matt was…

"Adessi?" Mello asked in a voice strained by bombs and fatigue.

Smoke rose from between Matt's fingers; he drew in the dark air and grinned, still laughing that bitter desperate laugh. "Not even fucking close. Who gives a damn about Adessi anyway? No one I know."

"We tried to kill that bastard, you know. Some people do give a damn about the asshole who started this whole mess," Mello said.

Matt looked up at them and then grinned and dropped his cigarette in an onslaught of laughter, the smoke rose in thin wisps until it vanished into the darkness overhead. "You think this is Adessi's fault? The guy is a fucking pawn. We're all pawns—he's just some schmuck placed there so that you can have a head on your silver platter."

"And where have you been, Matt?" Near asked, breaking his own silence, becoming real for a fraction of a second.

Matt smiled. "Oh, I've been places, Near. While you two played terrorist and martyr I was out there, in the real world. You have no idea what the hell you're doing. That's okay, though. Most of us don't. No, the thing that's going to get you killed isn't going to be Adessi or your goddamned stupidity."

"I still think we accomplished more than you," Near responded.

Matt nodded grimly and began to light a new cigarette. "Maybe, but that wasn't a high bar to begin with."

There was a moment of silence and it struck Mello that Matt hadn't asked for the key, hadn't asked to escape, hadn't asked anything other than the casual introduction. He acted as if nothing had changed. Yet, underneath those words, there was a bitter current that Mello could not deny, and he couldn't quite forget that Matt had been the one left behind.

"Do you want to come with us?" Mello asked, watching as the boy sat on the floor, smoking his cigarette, almost looking like a man despite his pale, thin fingers.

"Do you have a key?" Matt responded, and Mello could practically see the raised eyebrow beneath the mask's cloth.

"Yes, we have a key. Do you want to come?"

Mello should have realized something was wrong, something was terribly wrong, when Matt sat in silent and regarded the question, as if it was something to think over. Something to decide instead of simply snatch. Matt made a decision in that moment, but it wasn't the decision Mello thought.

"Why not? Second time's the charm." Matt smiled and held out his hand, as if motioning them to open the door.

Mello did.

There was a bang, and then there was a bullet in his head. He thought he heard a second bang as well, but his body hit the floor before he could hear the noise.

Matt stepped over the growing pool of blood, the smoke of his cigarette mixing with the smoke of his gun.

(Mello could see something of Near's dragon in Matt's eyes.)


	49. In the Wasteland

**IN THE WASTELAND**

Spilled milk tears,  
I did this for you  
Spilling over the idol  
_-Bedroom Hymn, Florence + the Machine_

"There are tales about me; I've heard most of them already." Death smiled as he spoke, standing before the young girl whose heart he was about to take.

"My story is different," she said—not with confidence, for she was shaking, but certainly with presumption.

"Is it really?" Death asked, perhaps with amusement.

"Yes."

"I imagine it is a tale to last a thousand nights, but I have been told such tales already, and I find that in my old age, stories are becoming rather dull."

* * *

"I'm not surprised you tried," the Shinigami said lightly to his friend. The gun had long since been placed to the side; Neal's eyes seemed a bit duller than they had before. There were a few more scattered papers than perhaps there had been a few hours earlier, but nonetheless it was the same room it had always been, and their words words were meaningless. Four years, and the room had hardly moved.

"Go fuck yourself."

"I am not surprised you are saying that to my face either." The shinigami motioned to the gun. "It takes a lot out of you, dying. Blood, brains, soul, heart… Takes quite a lot, and does not give it back. Everyone knows that death is a stingy miser."

Neal wondered how it could be that the Shinigami looked more human than he had before, than he had in the beginning. Had he somehow forgotten what real people looked like? Was this thing, this child-like, hideous reproduction, the only model left for him? Had he thrown out the original? Was he merely a shadow upon the cave's wall?

Neal began to laugh because he had heard this conversation before, and he was getting very tired of it. Didn't the thing have better things to do?

"Why are you here?" the reporter asked.

"You know why I'm here. I've given you all the clues."

"You gave me bullshit. You gave me a Notebook and told me to make a religion out of it, and here I am and here you are. Why are you really here, why did you come, why do you care?"

The child-god with white hair leaned upon the desk, white feathers framing his pale face. He was colorless except for the fragments of light that sometimes fell upon him—ragged clothing, thin fingers, a starving orphan with a smile like ice, blue eyes that burned like fire unwatched and unheeded. They watched each other, and in the office Neal could hear a clock ticking and the sound of distant gunfire.

"I once told you that Shinigami have gods, and that unlike you, we are fully aware of their existence." The boy spoke in a voice that rang of solemn church bells.

"Yes, I remember."

"We have one god of whom we are not certain. We call him our king. For most of us, we leave it at that. His existence in our world is casual, at best; we have no reason to keep him mind."

Neal's eyes were on his face, watching the still expression, deeper, less human than it usually was. This was his true face, or closer to his true face, the other the childish glee the gloating was only a mask. This face had weathered years, had been etched by dark sands of another desert world; this face had no name to accompany it. It was in that moment that Neal realized that the Shinigami's name, Achos, wasn't a name at all. It was a mask.

"What is he, then?"

"He is our creator. Our god, in a sense, though what desert wind or unnamed God created him is beyond my sight."

In another conversation, the Shinigami would have smiled, would have laughed, but this new face, this unseen face, did not split into a broad grin. Rather, it remained etched out of wind and sand. The unseen desert. Desert in the snow.

"What does he have to do with anything?"

"My maker and I have a bargain."

Neal looked down at the gun, remembered how tempting it had been. He looked up then and asked, "Is that all?"

"That's all."

"And he told you to destroy the human world?" Neal asked, his hands clasped together.

"Oh no, that was all you, Adessi." The wasteland stretched out in his eyes. "Our bargain had nothing to do with you or your world. I had been cheated out of curiosity. We creatures of death are ever gamblers, and we were fashioned in the image of our wayward god. He could not resist the game; he could not resist the allure of the dice, and I wanted what institutionalized chance would not have given me."

This creature, this thing with wings and blue eyes, was not meant to wear human hands. Neal knew. For the first time in his life, Neal knew the answer before he was told. And he wished that he had taken the bullet instead, just to avoid the pointlessness of it all.

"Isn't this a gamble, isn't this a game for you?" His voice shook like his hands had an hour before, when the gun had been pressed against his temple.

"You catch on slowly, even for a human." It laughed then, but it was as if the walls were laughing at him—not a child, not a thing. "The game is almost over, you're almost done here, and I have just a few moves left. Then we can all return home."

"What's left?"

But Neal already knew, because he had been living with the Shinigami far too long.

"Clearing the board of useless pawns."

* * *

White corpses littered the streets and empty churches. Each clutched its heart in dismay, perhaps an expression of betrayal etched beneath their dark masks. Like ghosts, they draped themselves over the gutters and the church pews; their bells and voices were long since silent.

The people stepped tentatively over the white rags like abandoned, blood-stained parchment—yet it was clear there was not a drop on them, no fatal drop. The living looked over the dead as if surprised, and then as if not surprised in the least.

It had to have been recent, for people were usually good about the bodies littering the streets; accidents happened, but not in this magnitude, not in this faceless magnitude. They had been dragged out of the streets, propped against the walls like toy dolls waiting for deliverance by the green trucks.

No one had the nerve to say it was a shame, nor a waste, because they knew what these people had been in their day. Vultures painted white.

* * *

Perhaps it was some errant breeze, or his own sweating, blood-stained hand—yet for a single moment, the Shinigami world saw his unmasked, blinking eyes. He looked up at them with distant curiosity, pausing for a moment amid the madness; the scarlet letters floated hesitantly above his auburn hair.

They read the name of a false god (in whom they believed through tales) and with shaking fingers dropped their pens in the sand.

* * *

"It's simpler than I thought it was. Or perhaps it's more complicated than anyone could have imagined. I don't know."

Neal sat by the window, aware of the Shinigami's presence but not explicitly addressing it—merely aware of it. The child-god had revealed his gambit, and at first Neal had wanted only to find its flaw. But there was none: there could be no winners and no losers, only the dead and the forgotten. And so Neal was left to justify the placement of the puzzle.

"Of course, we've almost destroyed ourselves before this, too. Differently, though, with bombs, not Shinigami. We've been here before. Plague, war, fear—we've just forgotten about it." Neal smiled and turned to the Shinigami.

"This world is filled with no sense, and it all stems from you." Neal closed his eyes and thought back to the trigger and his sweating hands.

"You started this war and you refuse to end it; there's something you want that can only be accomplished through prolonging death and promoting anarchy. Anarchy isn't your goal, though, it's your game board, and the Shinigami Realm and this realm are merely checkered squares."

Neal stood then, his voice rising. "You have prevented the man in the basement from dying for some inexplicable reason, one that no doubt will prolong the chaos. The man that is coming threatens this chaos, but he also is the chaos—he's filled with no sense, too, so you can't get rid of him for fear of upsetting the game."

"The game is dwindling though and you're losing pieces one by one, but it doesn't bother you because you must be winning at whatever this game is. It's the last stretch, and something, I don't know what, is in sight."

Neal paused.

"Even if you leave, though, it won't make a difference. This world was filled with no sense even before you got here."

Achos floated above the desk, his pale feet hovering above the stacks of papers. In his hands there was a black notebook, and his pen leaked names upon blank pages. It was in that moment that Neal realized that it didn't matter how long he devoted his life to finding out what had happened—Achos had already burned half the game board.

* * *

"I think I want to die," Catherine said to the Shinigami with the clown's face. She said it as if it were a revelation, something she had just realized, though she had been aware of it for a long time. She wasn't sure when the decision formalized or when it had become more than simply an odd thought. Perhaps it was when Naomi died; perhaps it was before then. It was hard to remember. It was hard to remember anything, really. She just wanted to go home.

"Hyuk, why's that?"

"It's going to get worse before it gets better. That's what they usually say. I don't see it getting any better, though. It's not, is it?"

"Probably not." The Shinigami shrugged as if to say that the chaos was far more entertaining, anyway. Catherine already knew his answer, but she had to ask.

"I think it's going to stay like this, like this bloody screaming mess, and I don't think it's going to end. They can tell me that things will get better and that someday I'll leave this place, but I know what they don't know—I know that I'm in hell already, and they're only in the suburbs."

She stood in the empty room, looking down at the wounded, dead soldiers, wondering which of them was really seeing her or hearing a word she said. The bullets had stopped screaming long ago, but the bodies were still painted red. Masks everywhere—still masks, even though their faces and limbs were dead. Discarded puppets, painted smiles everywhere, paint dripping down the walls. Red paint, like red roses, a field of them blurring together until it was only blood on the yellow wall paper.

"If I asked you to, and if I took off my mask, would write my name?"

The bodies didn't answer; they were dead. Her hands were scrunching the fabric of her jacket. She couldn't remember when it got so red. The blood was dripping down the walls, and in the distance she heard the pounding of the guns.

* * *

"We're all going to die." The Shinigami turned from the pit, from the eye, from their only source of food to the unforgiving sky. "We're all going to die."

Someone had killed all the Shinigami Servants—like they were cattle, like they were only meant for the slaughter anyway. No masks, no words, only bodies falling one on top of the other and the Shinigami left to watch. In their minds, they couldn't help but think back on what Ryuk said about death, about Light Yagami.

They had seen his face, his scarred face, and in that moment they knew he was real. He saw them, he looked up through the ceiling and the sky and he saw them, hunched about the eye of the hurricane looking down down down.

There was nothing left. It was like the beginning, but this time there was nothing left. Only corpses, only martyrs and blood—an outpouring of blood.

Yet in their minds they saw Death's golden eyes and heard his dark human laughter.

* * *

The Creator's footsteps were almost silent amid the dust. His eyes watched the grey horizon the chains and the bones. He heard only the echoes of the guns and the death; there was only dust in his own realm.

Perhaps he considered Gnosticism in that moment, referring to himself as merely a reflection of the true God. Demiurge could not always help but remember that his was a kingdom of dust.

* * *

Light walked through their ranks and yet they hardly noticed. They were too busy dying—when they were shot in the stomach, they smiled as if it was the greatest moment of their life. Light walked past them, prisoner in tow. The blood seemed to pass by him, parting like the Red Sea.

The prisoner stumbled and hung back. He could not avoid the blood.

"Don't pay them any mind; they're hardly important," the god with the scarred face said to the man whose hand he clasped so amiably. And in that moment, they were hardly important, for he had said it.

They walked on.

* * *

Neal had barred the door with a desk. He sat in his chair and watched it, his eyes never leaving and the sound of his heart running through his ears. The desk regarded him coldly, perhaps wondering what on earth he thought he was doing. It was all pointless, so why had he bothered?

He hardly noticed the Shinigami.

"I'm leaving now, Neal," it said softly. Neal realized that this was the first time it had called him Neal, and that it was saying goodbye.

Neal looked to his right and found the god of death staring at him with glimmering blue eyes and dangling, bandaged hands—useless, human, pale fingers. Like a child, a lost child in a crowd, who has yet to cry out in terror. It tried to smile.

"Is it over then?" Neal asked.

The child did not move. "My part in it has ended."

"How do you know that?" Neal asked, and yet, he knew. The eyes saw more than they should.

"I was created by a false god, Neal. He gave me more and less than he intended. He gambled and experimented in my name. These are not my hands, these are not my eyes—they have been placed upon me by the king of dust. The false god owes me life. My debts have been ratified through blood and dust. It is time to go home."

Neal felt that at one time, he would have said something different; yet he felt that he was beyond terror, because there was a desk in front of his door. That was almost enough. Enough to protect him from the humans. But death would not be held off by a desk.

"What's it like there?"

"Quiet, almost not dead. As if someone or something had a dream of life, once, and woke blinking, their eyes still bleary from that forgotten promise, but slowly adjusting to the fact that such things do not exist. "

Neal heard the gunshots and the word "dead" and looked at the Shinigami who stood by the door. "How could you want to go back to a place like that?"

The child only smiled and faded through the door. Neal was alone.


	50. There Was a Door

**A/N: THIS IS THE END. Thank you all for reading and caring this far. **

* * *

**THERE WAS A DOOR**

I wish to remain nameless  
And live without shame  
'Cause what's in a name, oh  
I still remain the same

_-Remain Nameless, Florence + The Machine_

Matsuda wandered through empty white hallways at the end of the world. He wondered just where all the soldiers had gone—the Kira soldiers and the people who lived there. There must have been people; he swore there were people, but they were all dead or gone missing. It was as if it wasn't even real, like someone had just sketched it out for them on a piece of paper and none of them had looked closely enough to see that shaded lines didn't make it three dimensional. Even the gunfire was so constant and yet so distant that it didn't quite seem real.

He had walked through most of it, hidden through some of it, and once most the guns were silent, he had made his way through the rest. He remembered L in those moments—not because he was supposed to find him, but because it was natural that he should remember the beginning in these halls painted with blood.

He had never seen L's face. He didn't have to; Kira made too many mistakes. Maybe it would have been better, Matsuda sometimes thought, if Kira had been smarter and things hadn't ended the way they had. Perhaps, in the better world, it was Kira who won and L who died. Some argued that it wasn't Mikami Teru's arrest and failure that doomed the world, but rather the fact that the police couldn't find the Notebook. They never found the Notebook. They still didn't know quite where it had been in the end, only that someone else had found it first.

They hadn't known how Kira killed, only that he did and that it was obvious who died. L was content with that—intent enough to get rid of Mikami and allow Adessi to slip through the cracks.

It should have lasted longer than it did; it should have been harder than it was. They found him too soon and they had lost too little. If Kira had won, or at least lasted longer, then maybe it could have been avoided. Maybe they would have found the Notebook; maybe they could have burned it…

They didn't, though.

Even during the case, in that other world that seemed so far away, L had been a symbol. L hadn't been real to any of them. He was Kira's adversary, the force of good against evil (or so they were told, and so they had forced themselves to believe at the time). To actually meet him in person was inconceivable. L couldn't be an actual person just as Kira couldn't be an actual person—even when you were hunting for them and working for them, something told you that they couldn't be real. So when L lost, it was as if an idea had been disproven, a piece of the universe had failed to operate. Nothing more or less jarring than that.

So the world had ended. And L had become failure, L had become hope, L had become the absent god that Light Yagami replaced.

Somehow, he had followed a mad god in an endless march through the wasteland, and he had found himself here, in these faceless, barren hallways. It seemed, as he walked, that the walls began to twist, to curve around him until he was walking on the ceiling. His path curved downwards toward the blood and the chaos—it was the bridge between worlds that they all had crossed. The walls were white, the rooms were empty. This was not the world of men. The sound of footsteps, the sound of the crows, and the gunshots were indistinguishable from one another. Everything else faded.

He had walked for a long time—perhaps for all eternity.

He turned the corner.

In that hallway that did not have the sound of guns, he found Light. Somehow, he wasn't surprised that Naomi no longer hung from Light's back, had been forgotten in some corner—she was no longer needed. Light had gained a new shadow of death.

Somehow, even when living, this new man looked as dead as Naomi had. He wore a bag over his head, but that didn't matter—Matsuda was staring at his chest, instead, and the letter inscribed there. He couldn't read it at first because L wasn't real, L was never real, L was dead even if he was real, but…

Light's face revealed nothing; his hands were clean (as clean as Light's ever got). Matsuda could only stare and wonder why Light had even bothered. Why would he bring something dead, something truly and irrevocably dead, back to life? Did the man write it? Did Light? Did it even make a difference?

Matsuda looked back at the man and somehow he knew that it made no difference whether he was L or not. No one would care: L wasn't real to them, either. L could be anyone. They didn't have to come looking for him.

He could only stare hopelessly as Light dragged the poor man onwards.

Light let go of the man's wrist and he stumbled. No, he looked worse than Naomi. The crows hadn't eaten Naomi; she had just looked fake, like Light. This man had been devoured by the stones and the silence. Matsuda could see his ribs—they were like stark mountains in the distance, shadowed in blue. He imagined that if he could see his face, there would be nothing there; he would truly have no face (not like everyone else who just pretended). It would be gone. Nothing would be there anymore. He'd look over at Matsuda to find that he had no eyes, no mouth, no ears, nothing.

He couldn't be L.

Matsuda looked at Light. "What did you do?" he asked in little more than a whisper.

Light did not answer, but simply regarded him.

"What did you do?" Matsuda asked again, but he knew there wouldn't be an answer. Matsuda turned to the man, the prisoner, and tried to pretend he was human by not looking directly at him. He looked to the side, at the walls that were far more substantial than the man was.

But he had to ask.

"What's your name?"

There was no answer. Matsuda was confronted again by the fact that this was a doll, Light's doll, and that dolls did not have tongues. Matsuda turned to Light, but Light wasn't looking, only smiling.

Matsuda asked again, "Do you remember your name?"

The man's hands twitched.

"You must remember something."

It was hard to see through the man's mask, a burlap sack, but Matsuda swore that the man's eyes had no irises. In that moment they seemed to cave in on themselves. The man's hands reached up and ripped off the sack.

He was on the floor, then.

Matsuda didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. He stepped over the body. He did not see its face.

Behind them, a piece of paper fluttered from the air.

_Naomi Misora_

_Cath—_

_L Lawliet_

Perhaps somewhere else in the world lay another scrap of paper dropped from the same hand. Perhaps it read _Sayu Yagami_, or perhaps it read _Misa Amane_. Perhaps it read every name, every face, every mask, every death. Perhaps somewhere lay a piece of paper that said _Light Yagami_. (Death promised in ink for tomorrow, decades from now, years ago—for it is only a god who could bear the weight of so many corpses.)

They did not see the shadow of death behind them, or the paper on which he wrote.

They stared at each other. Matsuda noted the each of the scars on Light's face; in his eyes, he could not see the corpse of the man on the ground, but he could see the door to which death pointed. They both stood to face this door. There weren't any more gunshots, not here—no more screaming or dying. Matsuda didn't know if it meant that they were all dead or they had decided to go home. He could no longer remember when the noise had stopped.

The door was white.

"This is him, isn't it?" Matsuda asked, watching the door, perhaps asking the door as well.

"Yes."

"If we open this door, we'll see him there."

"Undoubtedly."

"He'll be sitting at his desk and he'll look up at us. He'll be surprised because he thought he still had time. He'll have a gun in his desk, but he won't have time to pull it out. We'll use our guns first. One of us will pull the trigger, and then…"

Light smiled, but Matsuda didn't see it. All he saw was the calm, the cold, the humanity long since left. "And then everything will be like it's supposed to be, and it will be like none of this ever happened."

"It should be."

* * *

The door opened to an empty desk and an open window. The snow had begun to drift in


End file.
